


Heroes

by Atiaran



Series: Destiny [5]
Category: Xena: Warrior Princess
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-03-09
Updated: 2005-03-09
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atiaran/pseuds/Atiaran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Latest in my ongoing series of GabrielleCaesar fics. Gabrielle forces Caesar to defend a village. It doesn't work. Minya makes an appearance. R for battle scenes. AU. Not romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Default Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> **Standard disclaimer:** With the exception of Ami, Taurus, and Androcles, none of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but instead are the property of Universal Studios and Renaissance Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

**Standard disclaimer:** With the exception of Ami, Taurus, and Androcles, none of the characters, places, etc. in this story are mine, but instead are the property of Universal Studios and Renaissance Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended by their use in this story.

 **Author's notes:** The next in my ongoing series of Gabrielle/Caesar AU fics. This one follows from my last one in that as a result of Caesar's actions in "Choices," Gabrielle finally begins to draw near the limits of her patience with him, and her irritation with Caesar leads her to actions that are unwise, but nevertheless accomplish good works. Minya makes an appearance here too. There will be three or maybe four more stories after this one. Thanks to Lady Kate who helped beta!

* * *

" _Without hope, you might as well be blind…."_

—"Tomorrow Comes a Day Too Soon," from Flogging Molly's _Within a Mile of Home_.

There were two of them who came into the inn in the late afternoon: a young woman with long blonde hair and green eyes, followed by a man with coal-black hair and dark eyes. The man's legs were twisted and misshapen, and he leaned heavily on a staff as he followed the young woman into the inn's common room; he bore ugly, wide scars around his neck and wrists that suggested he had spent a period of some years in chains. Despite that, his bearing was cold and haughty, and belted around his waist he wore a short sword of the kind that had been favored by the Romans, in the days when Rome still stood. The woman and he had entered together, yet a careful observer would note an almost palpable air of dislike between them. The man leaned back against the wall, bracing himself with his staff, and looked coolly around the room as the young woman went up to the bar.

"Room for two for the night," she said, pulling out a leather coin pouch.

"Twelve dinars."

"Done." The woman counted out the money. "I'm a bard," she continued. "I would like to perform in your common room this evening, if you would permit me."

The woman behind the bar, thin and with dark curls, looked at her. "You might as well," was all she said, "though I don't know of the kind of audience you'll be getting." There was an odd note of melancholy in her voice as she spoke; the blonde woman frowned, but didn't pursue it. "Down the passage, first door on the left."

"Thanks." The blonde woman paused, and glanced over at her companion, who was paying her no heed. Something flickered in her green eyes.

"Oh, one more thing," she said, speaking loudly enough so that the few others in the tavern could hear her clearly. "I need to warn you: My companion is a drunkard."

She pointed to him. His head snapped up and he stared at her with shock rapidly sliding to fury. " _What!"_ he demanded.

She paid no heed to him. "He can't control himself around wine. If he asks for any, don't give it to him, no matter what he may tell you; he'll say the most outrageous things when the compulsion's on him."

The tavernkeeper looked at her, then at her companion, who had gone rigid with anger. "I see, Missy," she said coolly. "Don't worry."

The blonde woman nodded, smiled, and went to her companion's side; an observer might have noted that she was careful to stay out of his reach. "Well? Are you coming?" she asked him sweetly.

Her companion was taut with stifled rage. After a long, long moment, with his jaw clenched, he snatched his staff from the wall beside him, almost overbalancing on his crooked lower legs. The blonde woman turned her back on him—again, careful to maintain a space interval between them—and crossed the room to the passage the innkeeper had pointed out; he followed, clutching his staff as if he were ready to strike her with it.

* * *

As soon as they had reached the room the innkeeper had assigned them, Caesar turned on his companion—he had finally learned her name, Gladiel or something like that. He could barely control his anger; his hands were white-knuckled on the staff she had found for him. "How _dare_ you call me a _drunkard_ to the—"

She cut him off coldly, though she was careful to stay out of his reach; that infuriated him even more, oddly enough. "To the tavernkeeper you'll never see again in your life? Well, look at it this way: if you hadn't pulled that cheap trick to get wine at the last inn we stayed at two weeks ago, I wouldn't have had to call you a drunkard in public. But what I said was true: You _can't_ be trusted around wine and you _will_ say outrageous things to get your hands on it." She raised an eyebrow. "That's classic drunk behavior to me. I simply didn't feel like allowing you to drink up any more of the money _I_ earn performing."

" _Listen,_ you _irritating—_ "

"Irritating blonde harpy, yes, I know, I've heard it before," Gladiel or whatever her name was said, nodding. "Whatever. Just remember what I've said," she told him, and crossed to the door. "I'm going to go get Argo settled. See you." And with that, she stepped out, leaving him behind.

He looked after her, silently fuming. _That's not why she did it._ That stupid trick with the wine he had pulled—and now, here, he was willing to admit to himself that it _had_ been a juvenile thing to do—was not what had made her angry at him. She'd been angry at him for a while. _She's been like one of those African spitting cobras all week_ , he thought, watching the door where she had stepped outside, _just as pleasant to be with, only even more vicious._

No, this wasn't about the wine, and in his calmer moments, Caesar could admit to himself that he knew what it was about. It was about what had happened when they were captive a week ago. It was about a mistake he had made. He rarely made mistakes—even more rarely acknowledged them—but this one, like many others, in retrospect was glaringly obvious.

He had made a mistake with that irritating blonde, he thought to himself, in telling her to kill the downed guard; that realization caused him a deep sense of unease. As well it should. This mistake that he had made with her was a mistake that only the greenest and callowest of troop leaders should make: a mistake that touched on one of the fundamental principles of generalship, as he had learned on the battlefield and by observation of the very few other generals he respected.

That principle being: Never command your men to do that which you know they will not do.

As he thought about it here, in this cold room like any other inn room they'd been in, the unease welled up inside him more and more strongly. This was an element of leadership so fundamental that he couldn't believe, looking back at it now, that he had gone against it. Don't ask a family man to kill his own family; don't ask a soldier to invade his own homeland—Don't command an army to do anything about which its members are deeply divided. There were many good reasons for this, ranging from the fact that doing so ruptured the trust between a commander and his troops, to the simple fact that such an order would not be obeyed, and a commander should never allow his troops to become accustomed to disobeying him. This was _basic._ Absolutely the first thing any general must learn, so how had he forgotten it?

 _What's happening to me?_ he wondered, raising one hand to his head. Had Xena taken his command skills along with his legs? He would never have made such a fundamental error before. Even when he had brought his army back from Gaul and marched on Rome, it had been after a long campaign in which he had taken great pains to win the loyalty and trust of the men; that army had been _his_ instrument, his personal creation, and the men would have marched off a cliff if he had ordered them to. _Xena would never have made this mistake,_ was his next thought, although it was attended by a realization that one reason Xena would never have made such a mistake was that there was very little that was beyond her men—a rabble of cutthroats and murderers, kept in hand by a combination of stern discipline and Xena's unearthly personal charisma. _Even Pompey's legions turned to rabble, after merging with her horde,_ he remembered, his mouth twisting.

His legs ached, and he wanted to sit down, but if he did it would be too difficult to get up again. Instead, he leaned back against the wall behind him, rubbing his temples. _Something's wrong with me,_ he admitted to himself, and he didn't know what it was. His mistake with that Gladiel was just one example of it. By any dimension he could think of, he outranked her—he was older, male, and an experienced leader, paired with a younger, inexperienced girl—but she had been—his mouth twisted, but it was true—she had been dominant since they escaped from Xena's camp. She should not have been defying him as she had done earlier in the common room. His authority should have been too firmly established by now. And yet she was, and he didn't know why. It had been she who set the pace and direction of travel; she who spoke to and negotiated with people; she who essentially functioned as leader. And she was accepted as such; the people they met in their travels approached her and spoke to her and accepted her as the dominant one between the two of them. Even his charisma didn't seem to be working anymore: he hadn't been able to bully that soldier into laying down his sword during their captivity, and he had—yes, he hated to admit it, even to himself, but it had happened—he had backed down from that assassin earlier as well. Before, he never would have backed down from anyone. He would never have needed to.

 _What's wrong with me?_

He didn't know. Nor did he know what he could do to fix it.

Suddenly he couldn't bear to remain in that tiny room any longer. His legs hurt, but they would bear him a while yet. He took his staff from the wall behind him and, leaning on it heavily, crossed the room and exited by the door. This might be a village like any other, but at least it would be something different to see than these four walls.

* * *

After seeing Argo stalled, Gabrielle left to wander through the village, looking for the market. The excuse she gave herself was that they were low on supplies—and they were—but also, she felt that she needed a break from her companion. She couldn't face returning to that tiny room, with nothing for the two of them to do but snap at each other.

 _How did I get saddled with him anyway?_ Since last week, for the first time in their travels together, Gabrielle was finding him almost impossible to be around. Before, she had been able to take his surliness, his sulkiness, his sullenness and general jerky nature more or less with equanimity. But recently—

 _since last week_ , she admitted to herself—

it seemed as if her ability to remain calm in the face of his self-centered, egotistical behavior had left her. She didn't like it. She was finding it more difficult to make herself help him when he needed it; harder to refrain from digging at his weak spots. A couple of times she had snapped at him and said things she wasn't proud of—not that she would apologize; that would be to show weakness, and she knew him well enough to know that one moment of weakness and she would never, ever live it down.

 _What's he doing to me?_ she wondered, raising one hand to her head. But she knew exactly what he was doing to her. It had been that moment last week when he had ordered her to kill—had told her in that cool, contemptuous voice, to kill the young guard Licinus as he lay unconscious—and then refused to back down until Jett had intervened.

 _I don't trust him anymore,_ she realized. Not that she should have trusted him in the first place, even on a basic level, but she had thought they had developed some sort of working relationship.

 _And he's been determined to spit all over it._ That trick he pulled with the wine should have been her first clue. His telling her to kill was just another manifestation of that same tendency. Talk about a demonstration that he had no respect for her, for her boundaries, for her property…

Back in Potedaia, she told herself, it would be better. She wouldn't be alone with him. There would be others around to help her deal with him, to keep him under control, to take some of the burden off of her shoulders. Once she got to Potedaia—

 _if we get to Potedaia—_

That thought worried her even more. They had almost gotten _crucified_ last week, in large part because Caesar had refused to keep his mouth shut in a situation where it would have been wisest for him to do so. And she had—she had done—

She swallowed hard at the memory. She had been trying, very hard, to put it out of her head all week, but now and then it crept up on her. Even a week later, her eyes still prickled at the thought. _Come on,_ she told herself. _Remember—remember what Jett told you. Think that he was found a few minutes after you left him. It's at least as likely as the other. He's all right. I'm sure he's all right. I'm_ _sure_. She didn't believe it, not really, but it made her feel a little better to think it. She held onto that, concentrating on it until the pain faded, pushing it out of her mind as hard as she could. At last it went, but she knew it'd be back again soon. _Gods, gods….I wanted to be a healer. I wanted to_ help _people, and I ended up….._ She raised her hands to cover her face briefly; her eyes were stinging.

It just went to show that her companion was a huge liability. _He is. I think I was right—I think on some level he really does want to get killed._ She didn't need an oracle to tell her that a man with a death wish was not a good traveling partner.

She bit her lip, as a thought rose to her mind that she had been doing her best to suppress. _Maybe it's time to think about just dumping him somewhere._

She stopped, leaning against the side of a wall, not seeing anything.

 _Think about it. He's slowing you down, he's a liability, he doesn't respect you, your property or your wishes. You've been essentially carrying him since you escaped from Xena's encampment. I know that Xena—that she had a strong effect on you, but you've been carrying him for five weeks—over a month—on the basis of three days spent with the Warrior Princess. That's_ ridiculous. _I know he's helpless—and he is—but why is it_ your _responsibility to take care of him? He said it himself once: he would never help you in this fashion. So why then are you helping him?_

And underneath that, another thought: one so deeply buried that she barely admitted it to herself, tinged with cold anger: _And, it would serve him right. After what he forced you into last week…It would serve him right._

She wouldn't have to abandon him by the roadside, her thoughts continued on; she could find a village, maybe a temple of Gaia, and leave him there. Leave him in a place where he would be provided for, where he wouldn't starve, where he'd have other people to help him, and just continue on. For a moment, it seemed like the answer to all her problems. Just leave him, and continue on, go home to Potedaia: her mother was waiting for her, her father, her sister Lila—just go home to Potedaia—

 _If Potedaia's still there._ That thought, almost unspoken, was what haunted her. She had dreams about it: that she returned to Potedaia, only to find it gone. Sometimes the buildings were still standing, only deserted, and aged and run-down as if she had been gone for fifty years, not five; sometimes even the village itself was destroyed, burned as flat to the ground as the plain of ashes that had once been Rome. Sometimes—and these dreams were worst of all—she returned and the village was exactly as it had been in all her memories, but her friends and family would not speak to her; they neither recognized her or knew her. She knew these fears were baseless—that there was no reason to worry for Potedaia's safety; she had no reason to suspect that it had been destroyed—but the nightmares kept coming. If Potedaia were gone—

 _All the more reason to think about dumping him off,_ an inner voice returned coldly.

Gabrielle realized she was shaking her head. If Potedaia were gone—and she had no reason, _no reason_ , she repeated to herself sternly, to think that anything had happened to it—then he was all she had. All she had in the world. That surly, sullen former slave was her only companion and if he was gone, she had nothing No family, no home, no Bardic Academy, _nothing._ She would be all alone, with no family or friends, in a cold, cruel world where there seemed to be less and less room every day for charity or compassion or simple human kindness. Except for the fact that she would still have her legs, she would be just in his situation—cast out, alone, adrift. She would have nothing.

 _So the question then becomes: Is he better than nothing?_

Gabrielle realized she was having a very hard time coming up with arguments to support that proposition.

Suddenly, violently, she pushed the whole dilemma out of her head. _Not right now. I can't deal with it right now. Everything's too unsettled. I'll think about it after we get back to Potedaia,_ she told herself. _First, let's get back to Potedaia to see. Just to see. Then I'll figure out what to do._ She straightened from the wall. _Now, where's the market?_

As Gabrielle wandered through the village, looking for the central area, it occurred to her that the village was strangely deserted. It was midday, true, and as she knew from her own childhood growing up in a farming town, these were prime working hours. But even if all the adults were out in the fields, there still should be people around: elderly, young children, those who were otherwise unable to work. There was nothing. As she wandered down the packed earthen alleyways, under the sleepy hot sun, Gabrielle wondered if she were the only person in the entire village.

There was something else strange, too, that came to her as she looked around: Except for the tavern, which was stone, the houses of the village were rude huts, the same as huts in every other village they had passed through up till that point. However, many of the huts looked new to her eyes. They weren't weathered at all: at the hacked ends of poles, bright yellow wood shone through; the unpainted doors were fresh and shining, the straw comprising the roofs of the houses had not yet turned gray with age. _It looks like these were put up recently,_ she thought, standing with her hand on one wall. She could smell the freshly cut straw of the roof. And those that weren't new, many of them had walls that were oddly blackened, charred-looking, as if they had been scorched or singed by fire. The scent of smoke hung over the whole village, and the ground had a strange, ashy texture; Gabrielle could feel it when she scuffed it with her foot. _This village….I wonder if it suffered some sort of catastrophe?_

As she was standing there pondering, she heard a noise behind her. Quickly, Gabrielle turned to see a woman, stepping out of the door of one of the huts, a broom in her hands. She was a plain woman, tallish, with tangled brown hair and brown eyes, dressed in dull, dark, no-color tunic and breeches. She was robustly built in the way of an ox or mule or other beast of burden; she might have been stout once, but her clothing hung loosely on her as if she had lost weight, and her face was thin, almost gaunt. "Hey!" Gabrielle called to her.

The woman looked up at once; now Gabrielle saw that she had a kitchen knife stuck through her belt, and wondered at it. She frowned at the bard when she saw her. Gabrielle ignored it.

"Hey, where is everybody?" she asked, trotting over to where the woman stood in the door of her hut.

The woman's frown deepened. As Gabrielle got a closer look at her, she saw the woman looked tired, almost exhausted. "You just arrived in town today?"

"Yeah, my companion and I—"

"You better leave," the woman said wearily. "Just about everyone else has. This is no place for strangers. Not now."

"What's going on?" Gabrielle asked in concern, stepping closer to the woman.

"A warlord. Name of Zagreas." She drew a long breath, setting the broom down. "Him and his band of scum and cutthroats had been hiding out in the hills when Xena and Callisto came through here a few months ago, but as soon as they moved out, he popped up again. He's demanded that the villages of this valley pay him tribute. If we don't pay him by noon tomorrow, he'll burn our village to the ground, like he did the neighboring village of Piedmon. We haven't paid him. We can't afford it." She shrugged. "We can't," she repeated, spreading her hands helplessly. "Not after the way Xena and Callisto and Najara have ravaged this valley over the past couple years. We've got nothing left. So most of us packed up and went to the hills. There are just me and a couple dozen people left, out of the entire village of more than a hundred."

Gabrielle frowned. "Why don't you go too? Why do you stay, if you know this Zagreas is coming?" she asked.

"What would be the point?" The woman shrugged again, defeatedly. "First Xena came through here and demanded tribute. When our elders told her we couldn't pay, she crucified them, carried off our young people for slaves, and burned the whole valley. Then when we were just starting to get back on our feet, Callisto came through. She said we were supporters of Xena, and she burned what we'd managed to rebuild, and carried off all our crops and livestock. Then Najara came through, and took over our village to use as a command center in her struggle against Xena and Callisto. That wasn't so bad," the woman said, remembering. "She didn't burn anything, and she paid us for what she took. But then she got chased back to Africa and Callisto came back through, and burned our leaders alive for helping Najara. And then Xena came after her, and then it was Callisto, then Xena, then Callisto…over and over and over again." The woman sighed, pushing her hair back from her face with one beefy forearm. "Every time, we'd run up and hide in the hills, and every time we'd come back down to see our village burned, our crops gone, and more of our loved ones dead. And then, just as soon as it seems that Xena and Callisto have moved on, Zagreas comes down from the hills where he'd been hiding all this time and demands we pay him. It never ends," she said leadenly. "My boyfriend Hower was killed the last time Xena came through here. He was the last one of my loved ones still alive. I'm not running anymore. I'm tired of it. Those of us who stayed are all tired of it. If Zagreas's men kill us, then we'll just have to die, I guess. I don't really have that much to live for anyway, and there's no one left to miss me if I'm gone."

There was no defiance in her voice as she spoke, just a sort of bone-deep weariness, that struck Gabrielle's heart like a blade. The pain she saw in the woman's face reminded her too strongly of the agony in the eyes of Licinus, the guard she had struck down over a week ago in the caves, though the guard had been full of anger where this woman was not. In a way, the woman's dull acceptance was worse than Licinus's anger had been. It was almost unbearable, seeing the utter hopelessness in the woman's face; it brought tears to Gabrielle's eyes, and she swallowed hard. _I can't stand it. I can't stand it,_ she thought. Not after Licinus….She couldn't stand seeing such sadness. _She needs hope,_ Gabrielle thought. _But I can't give it to her._

I _can't give it to her._

"What if…" Gabrielle found herself speaking without intending. "What's your name?"

"Minya."

"Minya. I'm Gabrielle. What if there were someone who could help you?" she proposed.

"Someone who could help us?" Minya looked doubtful.

"Like—a warleader. Someone who knew battle, who knew how to help you stand up to Zagreas."

"A warleader? Willing to help _us_?" Minya frowned. "No warleader _I_ ever heard of would be willing to do something like that, and even if there was one, he ain't here."

"My companion," Gabrielle said fervently, aware in a distant part of her mind that what she was proposing could very easily be seen as lunacy. "The man I came in with. He used to be a warleader once. He may be able to help you."

Minya didn't say anything at first. Something flickered in her dull brown eyes. "You think so?" she asked at last. "You think someone could?" Even as she said it, she didn't sound as if she believed it.

"He will." Gabrielle spoke with a confidence she did not feel. "If you're interested, gather all those who have stayed behind, and bring them to the tavern at noon. We'll talk things over there."

As Minya looked after her, Gabrielle gave her a smile, then turned, and trotted off back to the tavern. Inside, she was already bracing for the struggle she knew would come. _He'll help. I'll_ make _him,_ she told herself grimly. He owed her, after what he had gotten her into last week, after what he had made her do. _I'll make him help. Whether he likes it or not._

* * *

Her companion was nowhere to be found when Gabrielle got back to the inn; checking with the tavernkeeper only revealed that he had gone out sometime before. _Out? Gone out? Gone out_ where? Gabrielle wondered in frustration. _Where exactly is he going to go with those legs of his?_ The tavernkeeper had no answers; she said only that he had gone out.

Realizing that he would have to come back to this room sometime—unless he were going to try to walk to another town, since Argo wouldn't carry him—Gabrielle finally returned to their room to sit down on the bed and wait for him. About an hour or so after she had gotten there, she heard the door open and raised her head to see him come in, leaning on the staff she had found for him.

Gabrielle rose to confront him. "Where in Tartarus have you been?" she demanded.

"Looking for _you_ ," Caesar said crossly. "We have to leave. Right away. There's a warlord who's threatening the village—"

"Then you know about Zagreas?" she asked.

"I overheard it. It does explain why this village is so deserted. I thought that was strange when we came in." He looked at her accusatorily.

Now Gabrielle frowned. "If you thought it was strange, you should have said something at the time."

His scowl deepened. "It seemed so obvious to _me_ that I thought it scarcely worth mentioning. It never occurred to me that you hadn't noticed," he said contemptuously.

 _Insults. Of course._ Gabrielle sighed, raising her hand to her head. _Why does everything have to be such a struggle?_ she wondered. Sometimes it seemed as if talking to Caesar was almost physically exhausting; it felt as if every little decision was ferociously contested, every slight sign of weakness on her part taken up and used to beat her over the head. Letting his tone slide for the moment, she braced herself and dug in her heels. "We're not going anywhere."

Caesar stared at her as if wondering whether she had taken leave of her senses. "Perhaps you didn't hear what I said." Speaking slowly and enunciating clearly, as if he were addressing a mental defective, he repeated, " _There—is—a—warlord—"_

"I heard you the first time." Gabrielle heard her own irritation in her voice. "We're not going anywhere."

" _Why?"_ he exploded in baffled fury.

"Because _you're_ going to save the village," she snapped, looking up at him.

 _He didn't expect that,_ she thought, watching him. She had never seen quite that look on his face before, in all the time they had been together. " _I_ am," he said after a long moment.

"Yes. You."

His brows contracted in a frown. Gabrielle continued, "You. You were a great warlord once—"

" _Warlord—_ " Caesar started to protest but Gabrielle cut him off.

"The stories all say that you were a great warlord. They say you were one of the best, maybe one of the best ever. Look around." She waved a hand at the walls of the inn, meaning the village outside. "These people need help. They need someone who knows what he is doing to guide them. To show them how to fight effectively and how to use what they have to win. That person is you. You're going to help these people to defeat Zagreas tomorrow."

She watched him closely, trying to guess his thoughts. He was silent for a long, long time, and his expression could have meant anything. At last he said flatly, "It can't be done."

"Why not?" she demanded, going on the attack.

"It can't."

" _Why?"_

He gestured impatiently. "Look around you, _little girl._ These people aren't trained warriors—"

"Neither are Zagreas's men from what I heard," Gabrielle countered.

Caesar ignored her, talking right over top of her. "This village is not defensible. It has no natural barriers—they don't even have any real _weapons,_ nothing more lethal than scythes and pitchforks." He looked at her. "These people are farmers, not fighters," he said contemptuously. "You can't make something out of nothing. It's _impossible_ , and if you had the most basic grasp of military strategy, you'd see it too."

He leaned back against the wall and looked at her, clearly of the opinion that he had said all that needed to be said. Gabrielle raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you use to claim that a great man is one who does things that others think are impossible?"

Caesar's face darkened. He looked away. "Some things _are_ impossible."

"That's not the attitude I would expect the Emperor of Rome to take," Gabrielle taunted.

He twitched as if stung, and started to say something. Then stopped, clearly struggling with himself. Gabrielle watched, waiting. "I'm not discussing this with _you_ ," he managed to spit out finally. Gabrielle started to speak, but he brushed her off with a wave of the hand. "Enough talk. We need to leave, now. Are you coming or not?"

"You can't leave without me. Argo won't carry you," Gabrielle reminded him.

He glared at her. "We'll see." Supporting himself with the staff she had found for him, Caesar straightened from the wall and turned his back on her. He was at the threshold to the door when Gabrielle spoke again.

"Xena could have done it."

 _Instant reaction,_ she thought to herself. Caesar went completely still, and his shoulders tensed; she saw his hands tighten on the walking stick. After a moment, he turned around.

" _What?"_

"You heard me," she said, smiling slightly. "Xena could have done it. She could lead these villagers to defeat Zagreas."

"You don't know what you're talking about—" he began hotly.

"She did it before. At a village called Tripolis. She and her second in command, Dagnon, held off the entire Persian army all by themselves, and forced them into retreat. The stories about her victory there are some of the most thrilling and exciting in the bardic canon."

 _Got him hooked,_ she thought, watching the change of emotions across his face. She was unable to repress a certain vicious satisfaction at his obvious anger; she admitted it to herself, even though she wasn't proud of it. _Serves him right,_ she thought again After what he'd done to her last week, she was meanly glad to see him upset. She watched him. After a moment Caesar said tightly, "That was a _completely_ different situation—"

"I agree. It was much more desperate than this one," Gabrielle responded promptly. "Xena was all alone, facing a tightly-disciplined and well-trained army of over _three thousand—_ "

"Four," he muttered under his breath, and looked away again. Gabrielle didn't acknowledge his comment overtly, but filed it away for future reference. _Was he in her entourage by that time?_ she mused.

"And yet she _still_ managed to emerge victorious. I'd say that situation was pretty close to impossible, wouldn't you? If she could defeat the entire Persian army all by herself, then surely _you_ can lead two dozen villagers to triumph over a band of maybe a hundred rabble."

Caesar was shaking his head before she had even finished speaking; she could tell by the way his jaw was clenched that he was fuming. _Good,_ she thought to herself. "No. You don't understand—" He actually broke off in the middle of the sentence as he struggled to control himself. "You're nothing more than an ignorant _female_ , what would _you_ know about military matters?" he demanded, glaring at her.

"I know enough to know that Xena wouldn't give up in this situation—"

"This has nothing to do with _giving up,_ " he insisted furiously. "This is about—This is about facing _reality—_ "

"Like the reality that you're walking away from a situation that Xena could easily have won?"

"What do _you_ know about it?" he snarled, lurching forward a step; his fingers were white-knuckled on the staff. "You know nothing about war—you know nothing about _Xena—_ "

"I've heard the stories," Gabrielle shot back. "I know that the Dark Conqueror never backed down from a fight in her life—and neither did you. _Before._ "

Caesar went deadly still, his eyes almost glassy with rage. He took one hand off the staff and gripped the hilt of the sword they had taken off Licinus. Gabrielle stared at him steadily, but inside she was wondering if she had gone too far. _If he comes at me with that thing I'll kick him in the legs,_ she thought to herself.

After staring at her for a long moment, barely breathing, he said between his teeth, _"You're no warrior, woman._ "

"I'm not," Gabrielle shot back, holding her ground. "I'm only a bard. A bard who knows that this village can be defended. It's not impossible—"

" _You know nothing—_ "

"I know that Xena could have done it—"

" _I'm not Xena!"_ he shouted at her.

The words rang abruptly in the sudden silence. Caesar stared at her, his shoulders heaving; he looked shocked at his own admission. The scars on his neck and wrists looked pale in the dim light. Gabrielle had no idea what expression she had, but felt as surprised as he looked; that was not the result she had been aiming for. _Maybe I_ did _push it too far,_ she thought to herself, and was surprised to realize that she felt no remorse. _What's happening to me?_

Caesar slowly took his hand off the hilt of the sword, leaning all his weight on the walking stick again. He scarcely seemed aware of what he was doing; his eyes rested on her, but he seemed to be looking right through her, at something she could not see. After a moment to collect herself, Gabrielle rose from the bed.

"Evidently not," she replied coolly. She left it there; there was nothing more to say after that. She brushed past him—he didn't follow her with his gaze; in fact he barely seemed to notice she'd moved—and headed for the door. Only to stop when he spoke.

"Get me a list of all the villagers who have remained behind. I'll need either a map of the area or someone who knows the area very well and can draw one. I'll also need to speak to the leader, to learn all that is known about Zagreas's army."

She turned and looked back over her shoulder. Caesar turned at the same moment, facing her. Something about his expression reminded her of the time he had thrown her belt knife at her; again, she could feel the menace in him from across the room.

"Thank you," she said anyway.

"Get out."

Gabrielle knew better than to push her luck. She left.

* * *

An hour or so later, Gabrielle surveyed the common room of the tavern. Minya had brought all the remaining villagers, just as she had said, and they filled the room, watching, waiting with the silence of defeat. There were three dozen or so of them—more than Minya had mentioned at first—men and women both; they were all tired and worn-looking, dressed in dull, earth-stained clothing, and with faces burned brown by the sun's rays. They clutched rusty scythes, pitchforks with dented tines, dull cleavers, notched axes, and even long kitchen knives in hands roughened by the plow and dusty with menial labor; there was no talking or chatter among them, as for the most part they simply faced forward, waiting with the dumb patience of oxen or other beasts of burden.

 _Maybe Caesar was right to doubt them,_ Gabrielle thought, looking over the crowd of peasants, and felt a qualm of misgiving. As she ran her eyes over them, she did not detect any air of resolve or determination about them; there was no will to fight, no spark, not even the hot hatred that had characterized the former Romans they had run into last week. These people had been defeated so many times that they had simply given up; she could see their utter hopelessness in their eyes. They hadn't stayed behind because they thought they could defeat Zagreas, and they hadn't gathered here in this tavern because they believed they could win—not even because they were determined to go down swinging. They had gathered here solely in response to her will, and perhaps that of Minya. As she stepped forward, into the open space left in the center of the floor, Gabrielle was suddenly overcome with a disturbing sensation—there and then gone—that she was surrounded by corpses, bodies of the dead who simply hadn't lain down yet.

 _They've already lost,_ she thought with a chill, looking out over those doughy, dusty faces, those flat and lifeless eyes. Suddenly, terribly uncertain, she glanced over at her companion. _He was right,_ she thought with a tremor. _Gods, he was right. These aren't soldiers. What have I gotten us into?_

Minya stepped to the fore as she was thinking that, and held her hand out to Gabrielle. "This is the stranger," Minya said, addressing the crowd. "The one who called this meeting."

Total silence. Not even a murmur of interest followed. The villagers all simply turned those exhausted stares her way. Gabrielle swallowed, and held up a hand. "Hi."

Minya faced Gabrielle now. "You say you think you can help us?"

 _You're on,_ the bard told herself. _No different than any other performance._ She swallowed down her sudden nervousness, drew a breath, and straightened, drawing all eyes to herself. "That's right," she said. She raised her voice a bit, to carry to the rest of the crowd, finding herself settling into the rhythms and cadence of performing as she spoke. "I'm a bard from Potedaia," she proclaimed, "a small village to the east, not too different from your village here. I've heard about this warlord Zagreas, who threatens you with destruction. Your village _is_ my village, or it could be, with the world being what it is today. Therefore, as I would hope someone would do for my village, should it face such a threat, so am I determined to do for yours: I intend to help you defeat the warlord Zagreas, and drive him away forever."

She paused, looking over the audience. They were silent, watching, listening quietly; there were no cries of enthusiasm, no expressions of joy, or even of hostility. There was only that same leaden dispiritedness, hanging over the crowd like an almost visible dark cloud. _Total apathy,_ she thought to herself; her gut clenched. The hum of flies was loud in the silence.

At last, Minya spoke up. "And how d'ya plan to do that?" she asked dubiously. No one else said anything.

"With the help of my companion here." Gabrielle turned to Caesar, who had been leaning back against the wall with his arms folded, clearly unimpressed by the whole thing. Now, as she gestured to him, he heaved himself straight, took his staff from the wall, and lurched forward to join her; he flicked his eyes in her direction, but she couldn't tell what his expression meant.

Gabrielle continued on. "My companion is a great warlord," she proclaimed, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye as she said this; Caesar's face could have been carved from stone. "His name is—" She broke off, suddenly uncertain, and turned toward him.

"Gaius," Caesar supplied curtly. His mouth twisted.

"Gaius." _Gaius?_ she wondered. "He has agreed to coordinate the defense of your village against Zagreas. With him guiding you, Zagreas will have no chance."

She spoke those last words with more enthusiasm than she felt, and stepped back, waiting. Looking over the solid faces of the villagers, Gabrielle had no idea whether or not her speech had had any effect; there was no reaction that she could discern. Caesar caught her eye and shook his head slightly, tight-lipped with some emotion she could not name. Total silence hung over the tavern.

At last, Minya spoke, doubt plain in her voice. "And just how you gonna do that?" she asked, looking at Caesar.

Gabrielle looked over at him too, suddenly worried. _He said he'd help,_ she reminded herself, and tried not to wonder about her companion's trustworthiness. Caesar seemed to know her thoughts; he flicked her another glance, and his mouth twitched briefly. For a horrible moment she thought he was going to say simply, _It can't be done,_ and leave her hanging, but he didn't; he drew a breath, straightened, and still leaning heavily on his staff, he faced Minya.

"I'll tell you how," he said shortly. "By using intelligence and discipline, rather than brute strength. From what I hear—" he glanced at Gabrielle again "—this Zagreas's army numbers over a hundred men. But they are untrained and incompetent, and Zagreas himself is nothing more than a thug with delusions of grandeur. You have something better. You have _me._ "

Gabrielle's own mouth twisted at that last line. _If anyone should know about delusions of grandeur, it should be you,_ she thought to herself, watching him. She said nothing. This was Caesar's show now, and as he stepped up to take his place, Gabrielle had to admit that it was a good one. She couldn't say exactly how he managed it, but as he spoke, he projected an air of total confidence and complete control, as if there were no task that he could not accomplish. Even his arrogance was playing right into it; the sensation he was projecting—that he couldn't possibly fail—helped to back up his assertions and make them seem more credible. And it was working. Caesar's personal magnetism was having an effect on the crowd. As he spoke, it was as if the air around the crowd lightened; she could start to see tiny flickers of hope creep back into dull and deadened eyes, and animation begin to return to lifeless, disheartened faces.

He paused, and looked over the assembled villagers, as if taking their measure. "On the battlefield, there can be only one leader," he continued, straightening to a respectable fraction of what had once been his full height. "As of right now, I am that leader. If I am to command you, I expect complete obedience to my orders, instantly and without arguments. I can lead you to victory, but only if you do _exactly_ as I say. Are there any objections?" His tone said clearly that there had better not be. He surveyed the villagers again, running his dark eyes over each and every one of them in turn, marking them out. No one said anything, but Gabrielle noticed that the atmosphere had changed, somehow; the villagers were watching him expectantly, as if waiting for him to save them. He nodded.

"Good. Now this is what I will need from you," he continued. "I will need trackers: men who know the area and can move silently and unseen, who can draw close to Zagreas's army undetected, and return and report on what they see there. Are there any woodsmen among you? Hunters? Shepherds?" He paused again and surveyed the crowd. A couple of people stepped forward. "Good. Stand to the side. I will need two or three people to organize supplies." He looked over the crowd. "You, you, and you," he said, picking out three people apparently at random. "Stand to the side with the hunters. The rest of you, to the perimeter of the village. We will have to put up some earthworks and they have to be done fast. This village—you're leader here?" he asked, looking at Minya.

"Well, I don't know if—" she began uncertainly.

"You're in charge," he said in a tone that brooked no contradiction. "Stand to the side." Minya nodded, seeming somehow to take heart from his orders. Already, Gabrielle could see the cloud of doom over the gathering was lifting, the energy of the room changing. Caesar's air of utter confidence was starting to spread to the villagers; even as she watched, Gabrielle could see their life starting to return to them. Already the assembled crowd looked immensely better; there was hopeful murmuring, and she even thought she saw a few faint, hesitant smiles flicker out there.

"They say Zagreas can't be defeated," a young man spoke up nervously.

Something flickered across Caesar's face. " _Anyone_ can be defeated," he said. "This Zagreas is only a man. Trust me. I can and will lead you to victory." He looked at them all. "What are you waiting for?" he asked sharply. "Get your shovels and report to the perimeter. Now." As they filed out, he summoned those he had directed to the side with a gesture. They crowded forward almost eagerly, and he looked them over. "Now," he told them. "I need to know…."

As Caesar spoke quietly to the trackers, suppliers, and Minya, Gabrielle thought to herself, _He's good. He can help them. I know it._

* * *

The rest of the day, Gabrielle was kept busy running errands and information. Caesar set up his command post in the tavern, after dispatching the hunters to go spy on Zagreas's army and sending the suppliers out to gather provisions, and given how difficult it was for him to move, he mostly stayed there aside from a couple of trips to the edge of the village to personally observe the earthworks taking shape. He had the villagers construct a ditch around the village backed up by a low mound, and filled with sharpened stakes; there were four openings in the ditch wall, leading to the center of camp. When it was finished, he had Minya select some of the strongest villagers and send them out to cut trees and gather logs, in order to make some things he called "hedgehogs." "What are they?" Gabrielle asked him. "You'll see," he replied irritably.

He had the suppliers search the houses and lay in stocks of arrows and spears, and had them collect stone shot for every villager who knew how to use a sling; this turned out to be most of them, which favorably surprised him. "Though it won't do any good if Zagreas's men have armor," he said grudgingly. He also had them search for lamp oil and other flammable material in order to make firebombs, and as the earthworks were finished, sent out teams throughout the village to prepare a few surprises for Zagreas's men, should they get past the perimeter. Since her companion could not walk well, Gabrielle ended up acting as liason to the various groups, relaying orders and information from them to where he sat in the tavern, going over crudely-sketched maps of the town and surrounding countryside and looking at lists of supplies and men.

As Gabrielle went among the villagers, conveying orders, gathering information, and reporting back to Caesar where he sat in the tavern, she saw firsthand the effect that carrying out his orders and preparations was having on them. It was as if she were watching them come back to life before her eyes. Though in many cases, the work he was having them do was hard physical labor, they carried it out with vigor, even enthusiastically, with laughter and joking. Just the prospect of having some hope of resistance was enough to revive the villagers wonderfully, and it was clear Caesar had made a very strong impression on them. As she walked through the mud lanes of the village, she caught snippets of conversation.

"Gaius….Gaius…." said a man, running a file along the blade of his shovel. "Wonder where he's from. He really seems to know what he's doing." He shouldered his shovel and bent to the work again.

"I heard that there was a Gaius up far north," a woman with a handful of arrows said to another woman stringing a bow. "He was a warleader or something in Britannia before Callisto came through—he fought alongside Queen Boadicea. Couldn't stand up to Callisto of course…."

"Well, who could," the other woman agreed, nodding.

"….But he managed to hold her off for a good long while before she drove him out."

"You think it's him?"

"Dunno. But he sure seems to be a good fighter. I know we'll win with him leading us," she said fervently, and muttered a brief prayer.

"Ami the tavernkeeper said his companion called him a drunkard," she heard a stout man with an apron opine a while later; he was working on one of the "hedgehogs" Caesar had ordered, and spoke as he lashed a joint together. "Wasn't there a Gai-something that got tossed from Najara's army for drunkenness a while back? You know Najara doesn't tolerate vice of any kind among her men….One of her best lieutenants, so I heard."

"Gaheris," the elderly woman listening to him corrected. She was sharpening a stake with a long kitchen knife. "Name was Gaheris. He masterminded Najara's famous victory over Xena's forces at Memphis, so I heard."

"Gaheris. That's pretty close to Gaius, isn't it?" The elderly woman nodded sagely. "Kinda makes sense that a fella gettin tossed like that might want to keep it secret," the stout man went on to speculate. "And accourse, there's bound to be a lot of people with a grudge against the Crusader…." He trailed off. "One of Najara's men. Maybe with something to prove, to himself or the world, out to do a little bit of good for once…." he said, musing; then suddenly gave a fierce grin.

As Gabrielle passed by the village well, she overheard three very young women giggling as they filled bottles with lamp oil. They were all blonde, and looked as if they might be related. "How do you think he got those scars?" one of them whispered. "You think he was a prisoner of war for a while?"

"I heard someone say he was one of Najara's men. Didn't Callisto get one of Najara's men a while back and torture him to find out her battle plans? It was back when they were fighting in Egypt…."

"And he wouldn't tell," the third one whispered, "because he was so devoted to Najara, he wouldn't tell no matter what Callisto did to him." She looked at her friends with big, meaningful eyes.

"But Father said he was the one who Najara threw out for drunkenness," the first one said, confused.

"Maybe Najara didn't feel the same way toward him as he did toward her," the second one suggested, and the three of them shared a deep, heartfelt sigh. "So tragic," the first one sighed.

"Well, I'll tell you what _I_ think," the third one breathed. "I think those scars are kind of interesting, and those legs aren't that bad, not for a real hero—"

Gabrielle quickly picked up her pace until she was out of earshot. She was grinding her teeth together. _I can't take much more of this_ , she thought to herself.

She found Minya under an olive tree, sharpening her scythe and kitchen knife. "Oh, hey, Gabrielle," Minya said, looking up with a smile. "All the traps your friend there wanted to set up are in place, and I heard that the last of the hunters he sent out has returned. Should be talking to him now."

"That's good," Gabrielle said. "…Gaius…wants you to take those stockpiles of lamp oil and lay them at convenient places throughout the village, so that they'll be ready to hand tomorrow in case we get pushed back. He also says lay the sling stones and arrows near the earthworks for tomorrow. And to collect buckets full of water and have them standing by, in case of fire."

"Got it. I'll have them do it." Minya paused, and grinned hesitantly. The change in her from when Gabrielle had first seen her was enormous. "That Gaius," she said after a moment, "he sure is something, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Gabrielle replied with feeling.

"I'll tell ya, when you first said your friend could help us I didn't believe ya," Minya continued, almost gushing. "I thought you were just makin it up, but boy, he really knows what he's doing. All this stuff he's havin us do, I'd never've thought of it by myself— _none_ of us would've. Zagreas won't expect it either, I'll tell ya. Your friend, he's got this…this…what's that word….this _aura_ —the way he acts, you can just _tell_ that he's in charge and he'll lead us to victory. Finally—like for the first time in _years_ —I have hope again." She grinned. "I'd almost forgotten what it felt like. It feels good."

"Well, that's good," Gabrielle replied.

"Yeah." Minya paused and eyed her. "Must be a lot of fun….travelin around the countryside, with a man like Gaius, doin good deeds an stuff…."

"Oh, it's a barrel of laughs," Gabrielle answered after a moment. She was unable to completely keep the dryness out of her tone.

Minya watched her. After a moment she said hesitantly, "Ya know, I haven't…haven't really had another boyfriend since Hower died….just didn't really see the point, you know—why bother, if Xena's just gonna come through and kill em again….If you think—think you could—" she paused and looked at Gabrielle closely "—if you think you could set me up with your friend there—I don't know if you think he'd be interested in a peasant woman like me—"

Suddenly Gabrielle had had enough. "Minya, forget it," she said. "Take it from me: he wouldn't be interested in you." Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be, and Minya stepped back.

"Look, I'm no homewrecker," she said defensively. "I'm not looking to split anyone up—If you've got first claim, that's fine, I just thought I'd ask, but if you're together—"

"No, we're not together," Gabrielle said tiredly.

"You want him all to yourself, is that it?" Minya asked with a trace of anger. "Won't give anyone else a chance? That's kinda selfish, if I do say so myself—"

 _How did I get into this conversation?_ Gabrielle found herself wondering. She raised her hand to her head, then met Minya's eyes. "Minya, read my lips," she said sternly. " _He wouldn't be interested in you._ "

"I don't—" Suddenly Minya stopped, seeming to realize something. " _Oh,_ " she said with dawning comprehension. "Oh, you mean—I wouldn't have guessed! He doesn't look the type at _all_ …."

"The type?" Gabrielle asked, confused. _What's she talking about?_

"I didn't realize," Minya was blathering on. "Don't know if you want anyone else to know….I won't tell anyone else, I promise—"

"Tell anyone else _what_?" Gabrielle couldn't help asking.

"Exactly," said Minya with a smile. "Tell anyone else what? Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me!"

 _What secret?_ Gabrielle wondered, watching Minya trot off happily. She groaned and shook her head. This whole thing was getting out of hand. _I can't wait for this to be over,_ she thought to herself.

* * *

When she got back to the tavern in the evening, Caesar was speaking to one of the trackers, the last one to come in; they were just finishing up as she arrived there. Caesar glanced at her, and told the young man, "You're dismissed."

The tracker, a peasant boy who looked as if he should have been leading an ox or mule, replied, "Yes _sir!_ " His name was Taurus, Gabrielle vaguely remembered. Taurus even made an attempt at what was vaguely recognizable as a salute before turning and almost bouncing out the door. Caesar watched him go with an unreadable expression before turning to her.

"Well?"

"Everything's in position. I've spoken with everyone in the village, and everything's set up. We put the hedgehogs right where you wanted them in front of the openings to camp—" they had turned out to be spiky things that would be rolled down slight inclines at Zagreas's army "—and all the ammunition and supplies are laid in. We're good to go." She paused, then added grudgingly, "I've got to say, the villagers….they are all very determined. You really helped them…."

Caesar gave a grunt in response. "Not hard," he said only, without lifting his eyes from the map in front of him. "The morale situation was catastrophic when we got in. Nowhere to go but up." He did not sound particularly enthused himself.

Silence fell. Gabrielle watched him, waiting to see if he had any other commands for her. He paid her no attention, continuing to look over the crudely-sketched maps in front of him. She wondered if he had forgotten she was there.

"Why Gaius?" she asked after a while, remembering her earlier curiosity.

"What?"

"You told the villagers your name was Gaius. Why Gaius?"

"It's my _praenomen_ ," he muttered without looking up from his work.

"Your what?" she asked.

"My _first name._ " He shot her an impatient glare. Gabrielle frowned.

"I thought Julius was your first name," she said, puzzled.

"Julius is my _family_ name." His tone said that she should have known that already.

"Then what's Caesar?" she asked in confusion.

"Caesar is my—" He stopped and looked at her, then shook his head in annoyance. "Never mind. _You_ wouldn't understand."

"Fine. Forget I asked anything," Gabrielle said, not bothering to hide her own irritation. She lapsed back into silence. He glanced at her, his brow furrowed as if he were trying to figure something out.

"Your name is Gladiel, right?" he asked.

Gabrielle stared at him, floored. His frown deepened. "Galiel? Galla?" he tried, seeing her expression.

 _I don't_ believe _this._ Actually, she did believe it, she realized distantly, and _that_ was even more depressing. " _Gab-ri-elle,_ " she managed to say without screaming at him.

"I knew I was close." He turned his attention back to the reports in front of him. Gabrielle fought down a strong urge to march over there, snatch the reports out of his hands, pick up the oil lamp on the table and smash it down over his dark head. She managed to restrain herself with a huge effort of will.

"We've been traveling together for _five weeks_ and you still didn't know my _name?_ " she burst out.

He shrugged. "It wasn't important to me to learn it," he said as if that explained everything. Maybe in his mind, she thought, it did.

Silence. Gabrielle bit her lip, sunk in thoughts of the villagers, of Zagreas, of what was to come tomorrow. Caesar could have been alone for all the attention he paid to her presence. _They have hope now,_ Gabrielle thought of the villagers. _Minya said so…_ Buried deep in the back of her mind, so deeply she scarcely acknowledged it, was the thought that maybe this would make up for Licinus. _Saving a village….that's got to be worth something. It's got to._

"Can we win tomorrow?"

Caesar looked over at her, startled; she wondered if he had forgotten she was there. "What?" he asked.

"Can we win?" she repeated.

He was shaking his head before she even finished the sentence. "No," he said with a trace of scorn. "I _told_ you before that it was impossible." He looked away from her, letting his gaze roam around the shadowed corners of the tavern, taking in every detail from the battered tables to the scuffed and worn floor. "These people are peasants. They're not soldiers. They don't have the will to fight, to win. You can't make something out of nothing."

Gabrielle swallowed. "But—but you seemed so confident earlier—"

One dark brow went up. "What was I supposed to do?" he asked. "Tell them 'Everything's hopeless, but you should follow me anyway?' Would—" He paused, and she saw his jawline tighten. "Would _you_ follow someone like that?" he asked with an edged smile. Gabrielle recognized the words, and could see that he did too.

"The villagers—they all believe in you," she got out, uneasily.

"Villagers." Caesar sighed in irritation and leaned forward, resting his head against his clasped hands. She could see the scarring on his wrists. Suddenly he looked very tired. "They believe they have a chance because they don't know any better. They don't know any more of military strategy than _you_ ," he added, cutting a glare in her direction. "They can't _see_ what I can see."

Gabrielle stared at him, suddenly beset with a creeping feeling of doom. _It's just his ego talking,_ she tried to tell herself. _He didn't want to do this in the first place and now he's just saying we're going to lose because he can't admit he's wrong._ She couldn't bring herself to believe it. He wasn't speaking with his normal cold hauteur—it was there in flashes, but in nowhere near full measure. If anything, he sounded as he had back at the tavern where he had gotten his chains off, when he had laid out the reasons she should give him her knife—speaking almost as one person to another. It was only the second time she had heard it. "What can you see?" she asked in a low voice.

He looked over at her, as if considering what to tell her. "These troop reports," he said, tapping the pages in front of him. "To start, Zagreas's army is larger than that peasant woman told you. Almost twice as large. Based on what the trackers reported, it might be almost two hundred. That's not a favorable situation. Even worse, and this is something she didn't tell you probably because she didn't know," he said coolly, "Zagreas's forces are almost certainly fortified with a core of deserters from the armies of Xena and Callisto and Najara."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"The trackers reported seeing men in armor and with swords among Zagreas's camp. If Zagreas's men were really no more than the cutthroat rabble that your peasant friend called them," he said in disdain, "then they would not have much better weaponry than your friends here, and they would almost certainly not have armor. Those so armed are likely deserters. It's simple logic."

"And that's bad?"

" _Yes._ " He looked at her as if she had just asked the stupidest question he had ever heard. "Deserters may have no honor, but they are men who are battle-tested and trained. If they deserted from Xena's, Callisto's or Najara's army, they are among the best of the best. They won't break, run or panic in the face of poorly-armed commoners, and that was, to be honest, the only chance we had."

"But…but…" Gabrielle faltered. "What about Xena's victory at Tripolis? Can't—can't we do what she did there? The stories say—"

"As you would have known if you had _listened_ to me," Caesar said with an edge to his voice, "the situation Xena faced at Tripolis was completely different. The Persians were not interested in destroying Tripolis, or even occupying it; they were simply passing through the area on their way to Athens. They had no reason to care about that particular village; when faced with unexpected resistance, they merely backed up and took another route. Here, from what your peasant friend says, Zagreas has apparently committed himself to destroy this village, and he must do it or else he will lose the confidence of his men and open himself up to challenges within his ranks. He won't be able to back down." He paused, and Gabrielle saw his dark eyes shadowed. "Not even…. have held off four thousand Persians all by herself, not if they were determined to destroy her no matter what the cost." He sighed again, and closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples briefly. "And we don't have Xena here."

Gabrielle swallowed. The feeling of creeping doom was spreading, sinking more deeply into her bones. "Isn't….isn't there anything we can _do?_ I mean, what about all the preparations you were having us make?"

Caesar shook his head. "Not enough," he said curtly. "The fortifications will slow him down but they won't stop him." He leaned back and looked at her. "Here's what will happen tomorrow. Zagreas and his army will arrive, probably around midday. They will most likely start by trying an assault. That's not what they _should_ do, but I doubt this Zagreas is that competent a warleader, and from what the hunters have said, he has no artillery for a long-range bombardment. We'll be able to repulse the first assault easily enough; Zagreas will probably simply be trying to test our defenses. After we've thrown back the first assault, he will have his archers volley, probably with fire-arrows, to provide covering fire while he reorganizes his forces. At least some of these will hit, and start fires throughout the village. It will probably take about three or so volleys for him to set his men in order, and then he'll come for us again. This time, he'll have put his deserters, with their armor and shields, in the front ranks as the tip of the spear and have them smash their way in with brute force. Once he gets inside the fortifications, it'll go house-to-house. If you've never seen that kind of fighting before, I'll tell you now: It's a bad business." He spoke with no particular sympathy. "We'll have to fall back and try to hold out as long as we can, until we can't fight anymore."

"What happens then?" Gabrielle asked. Chills were running up and down her spine. She tried to hold onto the idea that it was just Caesar's ego that allowed him to be so sure, but she had to admit he was making a scary amount of sense. _What have I gotten us into?_

He raised an eyebrow. "Then we die." He said it as coolly as if he were commenting on the weather.

 _Then we_ "Why didn't you tell me this _earlier?_ " Gabrielle burst out wildly. She was trembling, she realized, and clenched her hands into fists to avoid showing him. Her knees were weak at the thought, and she locked them, swallowing hard. "Why didn't you—"

"You didn't want to listen," Caesar said, shrugging. "I tried to tell you, but _you_ preferred to insult me." He paused. "I _told_ you you didn't understand," he said, harshly. "I _told_ you you knew nothing of military matters. I _told_ you it couldn't be done, that these people weren't soldiers, and that it was impossible. _You_ wouldn't hear it. _You_ insisted that we stay here, and that we try to _help_ these people. Well, here we are. Are you happy now?" he asked sharply.

"If you thought it was so hopeless, then why did you agree to do it in the _first_ place!" Gabrielle flung at him out of her own anger. "If you knew there was no chance going in, then why did you let yourself be talked into this to _begin_ with!"

"Because—" He broke off and glared at her. At that moment, Gabrielle knew exactly what he was thinking. _I'm not Xena!_ she heard him shout in her memory. She was distantly surprised to find that she still felt no remorse; only anger at him, at herself, and a gnawing sense of dread. "Never mind," he said. "Leave me alone. I'm tired of talking to you."

He turned away from her, back to what he had been working on before. Gabrielle was biting her lip, her guts roiling with cold fear. After a long pause, she asked in a low voice, "Can't you figure a way out of it?"

Caesar cut her a glance. "Not likely," he said sourly. "Our best hope would be to be relieved by another army, but I don't see any of those around here. Do you?"

"There—there must be something we can do…."

"I'll let you know if I come up with anything."

She swallowed. "Maybe—maybe…." She hated herself for having the idea, even more so for suggesting it, but couldn't stop herself. "Maybe we could just leave. Get on Argo and just sneak out—all the villagers are asleep, and—and—"

Caesar raised an eyebrow. "Too late for that. If you think you could ride out of here, in the dark, finding your way among all those backwoods trails we came in by, without encountering Zagreas's patrols, _or_ roaming groups of bandits—" He shrugged. "Be my guest. Besides…." He turned away from her. "It's too late to run. We're here now," he said with a note of finality in his voice.

He said nothing else; he didn't have to. Gabrielle could almost hear the echo of the words she had thrown at him earlier: _The Dark Conqueror never backed down from a fight in her life, and neither did you._ Before. She realized dully that since she had forced him to start this, he wouldn't run; what remained of his ego wouldn't let him. Not after what she had said to him earlier. _And then there's that latent death wish,_ she remembered. _Gods, why didn't I stop and_ think _about this before bullying him into it? Why didn't I_ listen _to him? Why…._ She covered her face with her hands briefly, filled with a sensation of looming disaster. _Gods, gods, if you exist, if any of you are still listening to us poor mortals down here, help us…._

There was another pause. Gabrielle watched him work, feeling cold and hollow inside. She asked hesitantly, "Is there anything I can do?" As he looked at her quizzically, she asked, "Can I…I don't know, can I get you anything? Another lamp, maybe? Do you want some water, or—"

She broke off. He was looking at her with that strange, far-away look in his eyes; it always made her uncomfortable. At last, he shook his head.

"You can help by leaving me alone. I can't work with you around chattering at me."

"All right, fine."

Gabrielle turned on her heel and retreated down the hallway to their small room. The deep-seated sense of dread she felt would not leave her; she gripped her hands together, afraid of what would come the next day. _Why did I get us into this?_

* * *

Alone in the common room, Caesar stared down at the maps without seeing them in the light of the flickering oil lamp. He had been looking at the same one for what felt like the past hour, and had made no headway with it. _It's hopeless,_ he thought to himself. Self-evidently hopeless. He couldn't dream of how he had allowed that stupid bard to manipulate him into this. There, looking down at the cold facts of the situation, it seemed utterly incomprehensible to him that he should ever have agreed to accept this task. _How did I end up here?_ He could not find a single satisfactory explanation except….except….

He pushed the map away from him. He folded his arms on the table before him and rested his head on them, suddenly exhausted. He was tired of banging his head into stone walls, he thought sullenly. It seemed there had been so many stone walls lately.

He closed his eyes. _That stupid bard's stupid question…._ He should have been concentrating on the task at hand, but his mind wandered; he let it go, and it went to the place it always went eventually. He rested, and he thought of Xena.

 _Want some water, slave?_

 _Water._ The word was barely a whisper. His lips were cracked and bleeding. He had had not a drop of water for three days, and he was trembling with the need for it. Even the hell in his lower legs was nothing compared to the thirst.

Xena was cool and beautiful above him, her blue eyes half-lidded, her ruby lips curved in a smile. She started to lean down from her chair, holding out the tall blue pitcher. Then stopped, considering.

 _I don't think you really want it, slave._

He had simply stared up at her, shaking, not sure what she was doing, only that he had to have that water. That pitcher of water was, at that moment, the most important thing in the world to him. He could barely even think, so greatly did he need that water.

She rested one perfect finger against her lips. _Ask me nicely for it. Say please._

 _Please_ , he had said at once. _Water, please._

She started to bend down again, offering the pitcher. He managed to raise himself on his chained hands, leaning against the pole of her tent, reaching out to take it. He could almost taste it—the pitcher was almost in his hands—when she stopped and pulled it back, tilting her head. The curve of her lips deepened.

 _Beg me._

His arms had given way under him and he'd collapsed to the ground, hiding his face against the dirt of her tent floor. So that was the game, he thought dizzily. He should have known. Every fiber of his being was crying out for water.

He heard her voice from above him, falling like silvery rain. _Well, slave? Do you want this, or should I drink it myself?_

The iron collar was heavy on his neck, but he had managed to raise his head, looking up at her to see what would be required of him. In the background he could see Pompey, sitting at her table working on something; he had turned to watch the two of them, but he could make out nothing from Pompey's expression. Somewhere, some part of him writhed in helpless fury that his rival should see him so, but that was far off; the water was right there.

Xena extended one white and well-shaped foot, delicately threaded with the lacings for her golden sandal. _Kiss my foot,_ she told him gently, _and say,_ _Water, I beg you, mistress._

He collapsed to the ground again, closing his eyes, repeating to himself what she had said. Kiss her foot and sayNo. No. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't do it. He would rather die.

But the water was right there.

His eyes went from the pitcher to her face, her beautiful, perfect face; in his delirium he thought he had never seen a more beautiful woman in his life. She looked almost a goddess. Her smile deepened slightly as he stared up at her. Then his gaze returned to the pitcher.

 _Hurry and decide, slave_. _I'm starting to feel thirsty._

 _She_ was starting to feel thirsty, he muttered to himself. Focus. This was about focus. It was about doing what was necessary to survive. If he didn't have water soon, he would die. If he died, he wouldn't be able to come into his destiny. He wouldn't be able to pay her back for what she was doing right now. He _had_ to have that water.

 _I can't do it,_ he thought, then followed it with, _You have to. You_ have _to._

 _Well, I guess you didn't really want it anyway, slave. Too bad_.

 _No!_ Frantic, he reached out and took her foot in his chained hands. His fingers were dirty and rough against her smooth white perfection. He pulled it toward him, then stopped, struggling with himself. He knew she was watching him, and also suspected she knew what the outcome would be, and those thoughts filled him with despairing, stifled rage. In the background, a slight frown creased Pompey's brow. He ignored it. Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her foot. Then looked up at her, hoping it would be enough.

 _Say it, slave._

Of course it wouldn't be enough. He closed his eyes, grinding his teeth. The collar was too heavy; he lowered his head, resting his forehead against the cool skin of her foot. _You have to,_ he told himself again. When he spoke, it didn't seem real.

 _Water. I beg you. Mistress._

He heard her rustle above him and looked up to see her bending down, smiling faintly. She stretched out the pitcher to him. He was reaching out his hands to take it….when she pulled it back again. This time, her smile widened into a grin.

 _Bark, slave. Sit up and bark like a dog._

Bark like aShe had to be joking, he thought dizzily. She couldn't really mean that. Except when he looked up at her face again, that grin was still there, and so was the pitcher, held tantalizingly over his head. He could see droplets of condensation beading its sides.

 _Well, slave? What are you waiting for?_

His eyes went over her shoulder to Pompey, in the background, fastening on him. His rival was watching him closely. _Enjoy it while you can,_ Caesar thought with dull, exhausted anger. _This will be you someday, and you know it too, don't you?_ Pompey's expression didn't change, except that his frown deepened. Then his world rocked as Xena kicked him in the face.

 _Look at_ me, _slave,_ she ordered coldly, the amusement in her voice gone. _Do you want the water? Then do as I tell you. Bark for me, slave. Bark._

Bark for her. He closed his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed with weariness. He wanted to scream at her to give him the water and quit jerking him around, but he knew that wouldn't work—he'd done that yesterday and gotten nothing but a savage kick in his shattered lower legs. Pointless defiance wasn't worth that much agony. If he barked for her, would she finally give him the water? Was that what it would take?

 _Oh for godsakes, quit fooling around over there!_ Pompey's voice, sharp with irritation. His eyes snapped open and went to his rival. Pompey was scowling blackly. _Just give him the damn water and come over here and help me with these troop reports. I've asked you three times already!_

Xena glanced over at Pompey, her blue eyes veiled. _All right,_ she said sweetly. He was reaching out for the jug when Xena raised it above his head and upended it. Water poured out in a cascade, soaking his hair, running down the sides of his face and pooling in the dirt underneath him. He caught as much of it as he could in his hands and gulped it down greedily, then pressed his face to the pools in the dirt below him and sucked it up. Wine had never tasted so wonderful. All too soon, it was gone.

 _There you go, slave. Water._

She had risen in a rustle of silks and gone to where Pompey sat at her table. He heard their voices intertwining, but that was in the distance, far off from him. He could only lie there weakly, shivering, hating, thinking, _Someday, Xena. When I come into my destiny, I will pay you back for everything you have done to me and you will get_ double. _I promise you. I_ promise. _I will show you that_ no one _conquers Caesar. Someday._

And now she was dead.

He raised his head from his reverie, supporting his forehead on his hands. The ugly scars on his wrists glistened in the candlelight. Now something Brutus had said came back to him. _That day will never come._ She had won after all.

She had won. As she had always won. Except for the very first time they had met, he had never seen her defeated. She had _lost,_ a battle here, a skirmish there, but she had never been defeated.

 _What would you do, Xena?_ he wondered, looking down at the rough maps, sketched with charcoal on parchment from that stupid bard's— _Gabrielle's_ —belt pouch. _What would you do here?_ What should he do?

He remembered Tripolis: the grinding fear that had hung over the entire army when it was reported that their commandress had been lost, his own gnawing sense of uncertainty—Xena had told him, more than once, that she intended to have him thrown on her funeral pyre when she died, so that she could take him with her in death along with the rest of her trophies, and being burned alive was not a fate he particularly relished. _Xena can't be killed,_ he had told himself, during the two days that the deathly waiting had gripped the army. _Not her._ _Not her._ And on the third day, he had been proven right; the cheer that had gone up when Xena had come riding fast into the camp, blue eyes blazing, had been like nothing he had ever heard before—it was a cheer that would have, should have, woken the gods. _Wherever they lie sleeping above this wretched world,_ he thought, and rubbed his temples again.

Xena had told him about it that night, after she had finished with him and they lay beside each other for a while, wrapped in her sleeping furs. She would often talk to him at that time, or rather _at_ him, for he seldom responded at length. She had been extremely fierce that night—she usually was after battle—and the violence of her passion had left him too exhausted to pay much attention to what she had said. Maybe he should have listened better, he thought, and grimaced slightly, unaware of it.

 _Why aren't you listening, slave?_

 _Because I'm not interested in anything you have to say_.

She had raised an eyebrow. _You're not interested?_ she had asked.

 _Nothing you do interests me._

She might have struck him for that—she had for less—but she had only smiled, a lazy, dangerous smile. _Surely_ something _I do must interest you,_ she'd purred.

 _Not one thing._

Xena hadn't responded for a long time, watching him expressionlessly. He had thought for a moment that he'd managed to score, that he'd actually drawn blood for all the blood she'd drawn from him; but then she'd said, _Well, if that's the case, then perhaps I should stop sending for you._

Silence. He'd clenched his fists, cursing inwardly. Xena had said nothing, but continued to watch. At last she'd spoken.

 _Very well, slave. But remember—all you have to do is say the word. Believe me when I say it would be no great loss._

That hurt. Even now, even remembering, that hurt.

Caesar stared down at the maps. He was tired of looking at them, tired of trying to solve an unsolvable situation. _It's impossible,_ he thought sullenly. The stupid blonde bard's words came back to him: _Didn't you use to claim that a great man is one who does things others think are impossible?_ That had been a long time ago. A long, long time ago. He knew better now—a lot better. Some things were impossible. There were some tasks at which failure was assured.

 _Failure_. He clutched his head with his hands. You _failed us!_ He could see the young soldier's face in his mind, twisted not with anger but with pain—the soldier that stupid bard had struck down. That centurion had even said the boy had served under him once, briefly; Caesar didn't remember him, but that wasn't unexpected. _YOU FAILED!_ He remembered how the boy had screamed those words at him, so loudly the cords stood out on his neck…. _I didn't,_ he told himself. _I didn't fail._ Even to himself, it sounded weak, defensive, even panicky. _He didn't know what he was talking about, it wasn't…._

But suddenly he was sick of self-deception. _Oh, who the hell do you think you're fooling._ He had. Sitting there, in the dark lit only by the flickering oil lamp, realizing that short of a miracle he would probably die tomorrow, Caesar admitted it to himself: He had failed. It was hard to think of a better definition of failure than allowing one's city to be as completely and totally razed as Rome had been. He couldn't have failed worse if he had tried. He had failed, and his city—his destiny—had been destroyed because of what seemed, in retrospect, like nothing more than stupid, _stupid_ pride. _Would Xena have spared Rome if I had surrendered?_ She couldn't possibly have done anything worse to it, or to him. Maybe if he _had_ surrendered, the remaining Romans at least wouldn't have hated him so much. Maybe if he had, then Brutus would have…. _Brutus_. His mouth twisted at the thought of that traitor.

He had failed. _I failed,_ he repeated to himself, thinking of the sound of the words. He had failed there, and he would fail here too, and failing here would probably mean the end of what was left of his life. Not that that had that much value for him anymore. _Xena could have done it…. I'm not Xena._ _Not even close_ , he realized bitterly. It couldn't be done. It was impossible.

Suddenly and completely out of nowhere, he was struck by a powerful longing for her, so great it left him shaken, almost trembling; he cradled his head in his arms again, oblivious to the lamp and the troop reports and the stupid badly-drawn maps, his mind filled with the thought of her, the feel of her, even the scent of her. _Xena. Xena. Xena. Xena…._ Her name pulsed in his blood like the beating of his heart, a steady, throbbing ache, drilling deeper and deeper into him with every repetition. She could have found a way out of this situation, he was sure, she could have….she could have…. But she had left him. She was gone, gone forever beyond his reach, and he hadn't even had the pleasure of killing her.

Maybe he _should_ have surrendered to her, he thought dismally. Even if she still had burned the city he wouldn't be any worse off than he was now, and who knew, maybe she might have spared it. What had he earned by his pointless defiance….except the hate of every Roman who had survived her vengeance on him? At least if she had spared his city he would have something to come back to….

His lower legs were aching; carefully he shifted them into a new position and the ache died to a low twinge. In a way, he thought dully, he had almost been better off as Xena's prisoner than he was now. At least then, chained by the neck to the base of that hideous throne of hers, he had still had hope—hope that someday things would improve, someday he'd be freed, someday he would have his empire again. Strange how he'd never realized how important hope was until the chains came off and all his hope had vanished under the cold, ashen light of reality. _Now_ —now he had nothing at all. Nothing except this pitiful travesty of a "command," forced on him by that ridiculous blonde harpy _Gabrielle_. _I wish I were dead,_ he thought sullenly, and realized with black humor that about this time tomorrow, he might get that wish.

At last, he straightened up, bracing his head on his palms. _Come on. Snap out of it. Focus,_ he told himself sharply. He drew a deep breath and straightened his spine, sitting back. The shadowed corners of the room seemed ominous, lurking; the darkness pressed in on the flickering pool of light thrown by the small oil lamp; the writing on the pages seemed to swim and crawl before his eyes. _You have a job to do. Do it._

It was hopeless, he knew it was hopeless of course, but….it still had to be done, and focusing on the work in front of him was better than thinking about the past behind him. Ignoring the throbbing in his lower legs, the stiffness of his back, the incipient headache he could feel forming behind his eyes, as well as his own weariness, Caesar bent again to his task.


	2. Chapter 2

Gabrielle emerged from their room the next morning after a night spent restlessly tossing and turning, her mind caught and running like a mouse in a trap between Caesar’s cold prediction of disaster and the harsh words he had thrown at her:  _I told you you didn’t understand.  I told you it couldn’t be done.  You insisted we stay and try to help these people.  Are you happy now?_   She had fretted throughout most of the night, stewing in a mix of worry and fear; as she rose from her bed, her stomach felt tied in knots and she felt a gnawing sense of dread of the day to come.  _What have I gotten us into?_ she kept repeating.  _What have I gotten us into?_

 

Her companion’s bed had not been slept in, she saw with a glance over at his side of the room; she hadn’t heard him come in last night either.  She might have cared more for that if she hadn’t been so nervous herself.

 

She set her clothing in order and ran her fingers through her hair before going out into the common room in search of breakfast.  She had never felt less hungry in her entire life, but she knew she should at least eat something to give her strength for the day to come.

 

The mystery of her companion’s whereabouts was solved as she stepped into the common room; in the cold, gray morning light, she saw Caesar right where she had left him, slumped over the table, his dark head resting on his arms.  His eyes were closed, and his shoulders rose and fell with the long, even rhythms of sleep.  The oil lamp that stood beside him had burned out.  The tavern owner behind the bar—Ami, Gabrielle had thought she was called—was opening up, running a cloth over the long stone counter; she caught Gabrielle’s eye, indicated Caesar, and held a finger to her lips, smiling slightly; she looked at Caesar with an almost maternal tenderness.  Gabrielle fought back the urge to glare at her.

 

She marched over to her companion.  The sight of Caesar sleeping aroused no pity in her, not this time, and she was distantly surprised to find it so; but the gnawing dread deep inside her gut crowded everything else out.  There was no room in her for anything except fear.  She grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.  “Wake up,” she ordered.  “It’s morning.”

 

He grunted slightly and jerked at her touch.  One dark eye opened.  “Go away.”  He closed his eyes again.  Gabrielle shook him harder.

 

“You have to wake up,” she said urgently.  “The army’s coming today and you need to be ready for them.”  She glanced over at Ami.  “Could you get us something to eat, please?”

 

“Sure thing, Missy,” Ami said with a bright grin, and vanished into the kitchen at the back.  Gabrielle’s nerves were so keyed up that the tavernkeeper’s cheeriness ground on her like nails on a piece of slate.  She shook Caesar again.  “Wake up!  Do you want me to get a bucket of water and splash you?” she demanded, her voice sharp.

 

He shrugged her hand off roughly, but he did straighten up, lifting his head from his arms; he winced, shifted, and ran his hands over his face briefly.  “What time is it?”

 

“Sunrise. Or close.”  She glanced over her shoulder at where the tavernkeeper had vanished, then moved closer to him.  “Did you figure…anything out?” she asked in an undertone.

 

“No,” he said, sounding seriously irritated.  “I told you, it was impossible.”

 

“Well, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Gabrielle replied.  The words of encouragement sounded as false as they felt; inwardly, her sense of dread only intensified.  She hadn’t realized how sure she had been that he would be able to pull something out of a hat and save them.  _There has to be a way.  There has to…._   She glanced down at the table before them.  In one of her bardic tales, she knew, she would be able to look at the papers, and make a random comment that would give Caesar an inspiration for victory; but this was not a bardic tale.  Everything before her looked as strange as if it had been written in the spiky Sumerian script; she could make heads or tails out of none of it.

 

Caesar eyed her coldly.  “What’s the weather like in your world?” He worked his shoulders briefly, then gripped the edge of the table and started to push himself up.  He stopped, wincing.  “I need to get up.  Help me.”

 

“Ami’s making breakfast—“ 

 

“It’ll have to wait.  I want to see the earthworks one more time.”

 

Gabrielle went to his side and pulled his arm across her shoulders.  “Will it help?”

 

“ _Why_ are you so stupid?” Caesar demanded with barely leashed anger.  “ _Nothing_ will—“  He broke off and glanced back at the kitchen, then continued in an undertone.  “ _Nothing_ will help, you screeching harpy.”  His face was drawn in the harsh morning light, his eyes seeming hollow, almost haunted.  He looked oddly close to cracking for a moment, and Gabrielle drew back in surprise; then he closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, seeming to take a grip on himself.  “Come on.  I want to see the earthworks.”

 

Unnerved, Gabrielle let him lean on her until he took his staff from where it leaned against the wall near him.  He pointed back at the table.  “Bring those.”  She picked up the sheets he had indicated, and followed him across the floor, then out into the misty green world of the early morning outside the tavern walls.

 

[*]

 

They came at midday, just as Caesar had said they would.

 

The sentries he had sent into the woods started filtering back in, reporting that they had seen Zagreas’s men moving up from the south; Caesar had nodded, and assembled the villagers at the south side of the village, drawn up in the narrow gap in the spike-filled ditch ring; the hedgehogs were positioned a bit forward of them to the left and the right of the entrance.  They were armed with the same motley assortment of implements they had brought to the tavern meeting last night—pitchforks, scythes, axes—but Gabrielle sensed something different about them; imbued with Caesar’s will, these villagers were fired with resolve.  She sensed a stony determination about them that had not been there yesterday, and something else: deep within their hearts, she sensed, a will to go down swinging, to fight to the last, be it victory or death, was awakening.  She sensed in their grim expressions, in the quick, nervous, hungry grins they tossed to one another as they drew themselves up in formation, in the way they gripped their makeshift weapons and implements and waited, silently, in their rows, facing forward, for Zagreas’s men to come.  That—that hunger to fight back—that hadn’t come from Caesar, of that Gabrielle was sure.  It had already been there, born out of the campaigns they endured at the hands of Xena and Callisto and Najara, out of Zagreas; Gabrielle thought they simply hadn’t had a way to express it before now, a means to let it out, until Caesar had come and shown them how to fight.  _I think Caesar may have underestimated these villagers,_ she thought, looking over the rows of determined faces; Minya was in the front, holding a wicked-looking axe, and she caught Gabrielle’s eye and winked at her.  _You can only push people down for so long before they start itching to strike back, no matter what the cost…._   The villagers might never have fought in this way before, Gabrielle realized, but they were far from untried; they had seen death and destruction before, as the three conquerors raged across their valley.  They probably had a better idea than she did of what to expect, of what could—and probably would—happen to at least some of them, and were willing to pay the cost.  Seeing their determination eased a tiny bit of the cold fear gripping her heart; she felt a little better.  _They have will,_ she thought, looking them over; then she glanced up at Caesar.  _I only wish I could say the same about him…._

 

Caesar sat on Argo, looking out over the array of the villagers, his face set, his dark eyes narrowed against the light from the noonday sun.  When talking to the villagers earlier, giving them final instructions, he had spoken with the same utterly confident manner he had the day before in the tavern; but Gabrielle could see the fine lines around his eyes, the strain in his shoulders, hear the hollowness in his voice. Maybe it was because she knew him so well—the villagers didn’t seem to notice anything different about his manner, indeed, they were responding to him almost as if they were real military, sounding off, “Sir, yes, sir!” and “Sir, no, sir!” in response to every order he gave them.  To Gabrielle, however, his demeanor said that he had already been defeated.  She bit her lip.  If their commander didn’t think they could win….

 

Caesar was mounted on Argo at the rear of the formation, on a slight rise that gave a commanding view of the battlefield; he hadn’t said anything overtly, but it was pretty clear that he needed the mobility a horse could give.  At his waist he bore the gladius they had taken off Licinus; one hand was clenched on its hilt as he looked over the green and slightly slanting field in the bright noonday sun, to the edge where the treeline began.  The morning mist had burned off, but the grasses were still wet with dew; it was humid, muggy, and Gabrielle found herself swatting at tiny gnats dancing before her eyes.  She was on the ground by Argo’s head, holding the horse’s reins; “You need to get down,” Caesar had told her.  “I have to be able to see, and I can’t see around you.” 

 

The second she had dismounted, Argo had become skittish, sidestepping, whickering and blowing; Gabrielle had seized the reins, and the horse had quieted.  Now Gabrielle spoke to her.  “You can’t do that,” she told the horse.  “I know you don’t like him, girl,” she said in an undertone, “but you have to carry him.  Just for now.  Okay?”  Argo had flicked her ears; Gabrielle didn’t know whether the horse understood her or not.  Caesar looked down at her from Argo’s back, and then looked away.

 

At her waist, Gabrielle carried her little knife, and tucked through her belt in the back, a hatchet; she had tested the edge and it was wicked sharp.  She had no intention of using it.  She had originally not planned to carry a weapon at all, but Caesar had looked at her as she led Argo out of the stables into the hard-surfaced courtyard.  “You’re going to go into battle _completely unarmed?_ ” he had asked her, sounding incredulous.

 

She had met his eyes, and some of the real animosity she had felt toward him since Licinus showed through there.  “I _will not_ kill again.”

 

“You’re going to be in _battle_ and _not kill?_ ”

 

“ _I._ _Will.  Not._ ”  She held his eyes, feeling her jawline tighten.  It was her turn to speak in a voice that brooked no contradiction.  The feeling of the prybar striking Licinius’s skull came back to her at odd moments, jarring her hands; she could still hear that horrible crack of iron on bone.  The two of them glared at each other for a long moment. 

 

“So you don’t have a problem with these villagers killing, only with doing it yourself?” he’d asked.  His black eyes glinted.

 

“What?”

 

“ _You_ wanted this battle.”  His voice was rough.  “ _You_ were the one who said the villagers needed it.  This is happening because of _you._   And you’re not willing to soil your hands?”

 

“Shut up.”  Gabrielle’s tension level was too high for her to tolerate his baiting.

 

“And you call _me_ a coward.”  Caesar was trying for cool irony, but his voice was too ragged around the edges to really pull it off.  Nevertheless, it struck home.

 

“Do you _hear_ me?” Gabrielle asked, her own anger rising.  “Back off, or I drop Argo’s reins and you’re stranded.”

 

“You’re not going to lead my horse unless you have some kind of weapon,” he had ordered her.

 

Gabrielle could feel her temper surging wildly, fueled by the fear underlying it; she dropped Argo’s reins and clasped her hands, fighting for some kind of control.  _I won’t kill again, and I won’t kill for_ you, she had thought but not said.  But then, unbidden, came the thought that she was, in a way, asking him to kill for her—many people were going to die in this battle, and they would die because she had essentially bullied him into leading them.  Uncertain, she dropped her eyes.  Only to find that Caesar had dropped his eyes at the same moment.  _What’s that about?_ she wondered in real surprise.  She was absolutely positive that it wasn’t because he felt bad about hurting her feelings….so what could it…..

 

“You don’t have to use it,” he said stiffly, looking away from her.  “Just…something.  That hatchet.”  He had pointed to where a hatchet was embedded in a nearby stump.  “Take that.  Just….take it.”

 

Gabrielle had started to argue, but had stopped; she was suddenly too unsure of the ground on which she stood.  When she had bullied Caesar into helping the villagers, she hadn’t really considered that it would lead to battle; only that they needed help, and Caesar could give it to them.  She hadn’t thought about what that would entail.  But she’d done it just the same.  After a long moment, she had snatched the hatchet from the stump, then thrust it through her belt.  If he had said one thing, she would have smacked him, but he said nothing.

 

“I’m not using it,” she had insisted, to herself as much as to him.

 

“Whatever.”  His tone made it clear exactly what he thought of her denial.  It took her a long moment before she could bring herself to take Argo’s reins again.

 

Now she stood at Argo’s head, behind the villagers drawn up in formation, listening to the sounds of Zagreas’s army coming through the trees.  She was aware of the sound of her heart beating in her ears, the blood rushing through her veins; she could hear the shouts, cries and curses of Zagreas’s men, coming closer and closer.  They hadn’t broken the treeline yet; she couldn’t see them.  Nervously, she found herself edging closer to Argo, as if for protection; she glanced up at Caesar, but he was staring out over the horse’s head, his face grim, his eyes narrowed against the sun.  His jawline was tight with some unnamed emotion.

 

It all happened just as Caesar had told her the night before it would.  When the men burst out of the dark treetrunks, yelling and shouting as they ran, Gabrielle gasped in startlement; there seemed to be a horde of them, of scruffy-looking men in the same browns and beiges as the peasants, carrying spears and arrows and long knives and daggers.  A man on a horse rode at their head, with blue tattoos on his face; she guessed it must be Zagreas.  Here and there among them glittered men in armor, cuirasses and breastplates, and she guessed these must be the deserters Caesar had spoken of.

 

“Not as many as I thought,” she heard Caesar murmur above her.  “Could be worse.”

 

The villagers shifted among themselves as Zagreas’s men boiled out of the trees, whooping and cheering, and a brief murmur rose over the crowd; their faces looked pale and set.  Minya, in the front rank, glanced back at them.  “Steady, everyone!” she shouted.  “We’ll give ‘em something ta yell about, won’t we?”

 

  

  1. Caesar was watching the enemy, and gave no sign of even hearing Minya.
  



 

The man on horseback gave a yell, and Zagreas’s men paused, milling at the edge of the treeline; clearly the sight of the fortifications and the villagers waiting for them had given them cause to reconsider.  “Will they stop?” someone asked in the ranks, as the enemy came to a halt.

 

“Will they?” Gabrielle found herself asking, looking up again at Caesar; her voice quavered uncertainly, and her hands were clenched tight on Argo’s reins.

 

Caesar seemed to hear her that time. “No,” he said, sparing her a glance.  “They’re just regrouping.  They’ll be coming for us in a minute.”  He returned to looking back out at the slanting green field, through the slightly hazy air.

 

And indeed he was right, for the man Gabrielle had identified as Zagreas gave a loud yell.  “ _Attack!”_ he cried.  He was holding a long sword, and swung it forward; the milling crowd of his men gave a loud cheer and the army broke into a run, charging across the green field, straight toward the villagers.

 

Now Caesar looked down at the villagers before them.  “Here they come,” he called to them.  “Wait for them.  Don’t move until I give the signal.”

 

Minya looked back at him.  “Should we release the hedgehogs?” she called back.

 

“No.  Save them for the second wave.”  His hand tightened slightly on his gladius.  Gabrielle was breathing so fast she saw dark flecks before her eyes for a moment, and forced herself to slow down.  Her heart was going a mile a minute in her chest.

Zagreas’s men came on.  They were four hundred yards away.

 

Three hundred. 

 

“Slingers,” Caesar ordered, and those villagers who had been designated slingers launched their stones.  Gabrielle heard the stones release, heard distant thuds, but couldn’t tell if anyone had been hit among the wall of advancing men in Zagreas’s army, though she might have heard some wails.

 

Two hundred fifty. 

 

Two hundred. 

 

One hundred fifty.

 

  

  1. There would be time to think about it later; now she had no room in her for any feeling but apprehension at the approach of Zagreas’s men.
  



 

One hundred.

 

Fifty yards.  Coming closer by the second.

 

Caesar glanced down at her.  “Don’t worry,” he told her.  “They won’t get to where you and I are in the first assault.”  He drew his gladius from its sheath.  The rasping sound made Gabrielle startle, she was so on edge, and Argo whickered.  He raised his sword in the air.  _“Attack!”_   The villagers gave a rousing cry and raised their weapons, charging forward at a run and clashing with the men of Zagreas.

 

It was loud.  Gabrielle was startled by how loud it was, and actually jumped as the first clash of metal on metal rang out.  The horde of Zagreas’s men were shouting, deep rousing battle cries, and she heard Minya give a shrill hawk-shriek followed by the rest of the villagers giving yells, screams, and cheers as the brown-clad force of Zagreas’s slammed into the smaller mass of brown-clad villagers.  All was confusion, with Gabrielle uncertain where to look, which way to turn.  The little hatchet she carried at the back of her belt felt heavy and cold against her skin.  She saw sights that seemed like something unreal, out of a dream.  She saw Minya swinging her heavy axe, face twisted in a cry, and splitting the head of a man with twisted black locks; she saw an older man carrying a scythe raise it to block a grinning man with a long knife and slice open a huge, bloody gash on his arm; she heard him scream.  She saw a young woman, her own age, jam a kitchen knife into the abdomen of a man twice her size and yank it out; a moment later, another of Zagreas’s men plunged a spear into her back and the girl collapsed in a tangle of blonde hair, spitting blood.  She heard cries of the wounded, screams of agony, heard thuds and cracks of bones splitting—cracks that reminded her horribly of the sound of her prybar hitting Licinus’s skull.  Instinctively, Gabrielle shrank back against Argo’s shoulder, flinching close to the side of the big warm horse as much for reassurance as for protection.  _Oh gods, this is_ awful, she thought, and remembering what Caesar had said the night before, knew the worst was yet to come.

 

The mass of villagers swayed and fell back under the impact of Zagreas’s force, collapsing in on itself back to the narrow opening in the ring of ditches and stakes.  Gabrielle could see people crumpling, falling into brown heaps on the ground.  Red blood stained the green grass.  She couldn’t tell if any of them were the villagers.  She hoped they weren’t, but knew probably at least some of them were.  The villagers swayed, fell back….and held, struggling, thrashing, contesting strength with strength, steel with steel.  The cries of Zagreas’s men mingled with the screams of the villagers; Gabrielle could hear a determination in the villagers’ cries, and defiance, and something else—something ugly, something that she had not thought was there, but which she felt was part of the defiance; part of the rage, of the hunger to strike back.  There was a moment of confusion, where the milling throng of people heaved and swayed like a sea…and then the tide shifted, turning the other way, and it was Zagreas’s men flowing back, back across the bloody grass; the mass of villagers heaved, and pushed, and threw Zagreas’s men back, throwing them into retreat.  They fell back, but not in panic; they were ebbing back as a tide ebbs out from a beach, leaving bodies dropped behind them as they went.

 

A shrill scream of victory rose from the villagers at the retreat. Gabrielle saw Minya raising her axe in the air, screaming, still in the front rank; no longer did she look like a peasant woman, but almost like a warrior, her long dark hair streaming behind her, her brown eyes flashing.  Her axe was red with blood and clotted with something that looked like brains.  The sight made Gabrielle queasy.

 

 _“Stop!”_ she heard her companion shout, as the knot of villagers started to untie itself and flow after them.  _“Hold your positions!  Stay where you are!”_

 

As he did so, Minya herself turned and shouted back at the villagers, “ _You heard Gaius!  Don’t move!  Don’t move!”_  

 

The villagers milled about in confusion; Gabrielle could sense the hunger in them, the desire to pursue what appeared to be fleeing prey.  But a few more shouts from Minya and some of the others, and they stopped, holding steady, reforming their rows and ranks, gripping their weapons and facing Zagreas’s men.  There was a hunger about them, a desire to hurt, to strike; a leashed tension, oddly like what Gabrielle had sensed in Jett when she had met him.  These villagers had tasted and drawn first blood, and they were hungry for more.

 

Zagreas’s men flowed back, back, across the green field, drawing to a standstill some distance from the treeline.  They were dun-colored against the emerald green of the field and the dark brown of the trunks.  “Steady,” she heard Caesar command from Argo’s back, as the villagers stirred restlessly in their formation.  At the other end of the field, through the haze of the air, Zagreas’s men halted, and milled at a distance.  Zagreas was riding up and down the ranks of men, shouting to them.  The mass of men was milling around in response to his commands, but Gabrielle could not make out what he was saying.  She swallowed, remembering what Caesar had said.  _After we’ve thrown back the first assault, he’ll have his archers volley, probably with fire-arrows, to provide covering fire while he reorganizes his troops…_.

 

And indeed, as she watched, Zagreas’s men roiled; lines of men came forward, carrying bows that were larger and heavier than the light hunting bows the villagers carried, with shafts that had cloth wadding wrapped around the end, while behind them, the rest of the army milled around in response to the blue-tattooed warlord’s commands.  They appeared to be sorting themselves somehow, but Gabrielle didn’t know enough to say how.  She glanced up at Caesar as a man stepped out from the ranks with a lit brand.  There was a pain in her right hand, and it wasn’t until Gabrielle looked at it that she saw that her hand was clenched so tightly on Argo’s reins that her nails were digging into her palm. 

 

“F—Fire arrows?” she asked Caesar nervously.

 

He glanced down at her.  “Yes.”  He straightened in Argo’s saddle.  “Slingers!” he commanded.  “Give them something to think about.”

 

Gabrielle heard the whir and hiss of the slingers hurling their missiles, and in the distance, the thuds and cries of the stones hitting their targets.  She had no time to look, for a moment later, there was a call of, _“Arrows!”_ and the fire arrows came streaking towards them, flames pale in the noonday sun, in a solid mass.  She heard cries and screaming from some of the villagers, and then felt the crackle of flames at her back as something behind her caught.

 

“Steady!” Caesar called, straightening himself on Argo, as some of the villagers stirred in the ranks.  Gabrielle could understand why.  _Someone’s house must have caught,_ she thought to herself, and automatically turned to see where it was.  Even as she was thinking that, she heard more hissing, more crackling, and a second volley of arrows came streaking toward them.

 

“Andelos’s house is hit!” she heard a woman cry.

 

There was a disturbance in the ranks, but Caesar called again, “ _Hold your places!”_ and they subsided.  “We don’t have time to deal with it now,” he said, seeing Gabrielle’s look.

 

 _One more volley,_ Gabrielle thought, and indeed, bowstrings twanged a third time across the field, and arrows hissed, piercing the haze.  This time, she heard the sickening thunk of shafts hitting bodies, saw some of the villagers drop with flaming shafts embedded in them, smelled the scent of burning flesh.  Again, it seemed as if it was something that wasn’t quite real.  She had never seen a battle before; when Athens had been attacked, she and the rest of the students at the Academy for Performing Bards had hid in the basement; hid there, until the fighting had been done and Xena’s soldiers had dragged them out before they fired the place.  _This can’t be happening,_ she thought to herself, afraid, and wished she were home in Potedaia.

 

  

  1.   
_These are the tip of the spear._   

  



 

And apparently Caesar had the same thought.  “Told you.  This is it,” he said, glancing down at her again.  “Here they come.”  He spoke with no particular concern, or even sympathy; he looked out at the mass of men, sorting itself out and now advancing forward, trampling the green turf into mud, with a strange, fixed air.  One of…. _anticipation?_ Gabrielle wondered.  His hand tightened on his sword hilt; Gabrielle could see that his knuckles were white.

 

The men of Zagreas’s army came on across the field, closer and closer, moving relentlessly, inexorably toward the small knot of villagers; the men with glittering armor, shields, and long, shining swords were in the lead, with the rest of the army following behind them.  There was something awful about that advance; Gabrielle knotted her hands on Argo’s reins, cold inside.  The villagers shifted as the members of Zagreas’s men came on at a trot; the air crackled with tension.

 

“Hedgehog.  Now,” she heard Caesar order, and the spiky logs were released, sent bounding and tumbling down the hill to crash into the advancing wave of men.  There were cries and yelps; the villagers cheered as some of Zagreas’s men went down under the logs, but not enough, and it didn’t stop them.  They picked up speed as they drew closer and closer, until the army covered the last few yards at a run to smash into the villagers again in a huge clash and clatter of iron and metal, with their heavy armor and heavy shields leading the way.

 

“Fall back!” she heard Caesar call above her.  “Back!  Back and take cover!” 

 

He didn’t need to give the order.  The villagers were already falling back.  Under the assault of armored, shielded men, the cluster of villagers was swaying, bending, breaking like a tree bough.  First in ones and twos, then in whole clumps, the villagers began to break, to flee back from the defenses into the heart of the village behind them.  Gabrielle at first thought they were panicked, but on looking closer as they streamed past her and Caesar, she saw that wasn’t the case.  The determination she had sensed about them was still there; she saw no terrified faces, but merely faces that were resolute.  They might be abandoning an untenable position, but they hadn’t given up.  They couldn’t hold the defenses, but they weren’t beaten.  They weren’t licked.

 

She looked at the set expressions of the villagers as they fell back, leading Zagreas’s men into the heart of the booby-trapped village, and then glanced up at Caesar.  She saw none of that resoluteness in him.  _Gods,_ she thought, swallowing.  _He looks like a runner forcing himself through the last lap of a race already lost._   Caesar was watching Zagreas’s men with a fixed, distant expression.  As the villagers fell back before them, the army was drawing closer and closer to the rise on which she and Caesar and Argo stood. 

 

“Should we go?” she asked, tugging on Argo’s reins to attract his attention.

 

Caesar didn’t answer.  He was watching the advancing enemy with that strange, distant look as if he were seeing something that wasn’t there.

 

“Come on, we need to go!” she cried.  No answer. 

 

Minya passed them, her axe held high, blood up to her arms.  “Come on there!” she called to Gabrielle.  There was no defeat in her voice; she looked determined and resolute.  “Come on, Gaius!  Let’s go, huh?  Lure ‘em back!”  She gave a cry, and hurdled the body of a fallen man—one of the villagers by the look of it, fallen to a fire arrow.

 

With a start, Caesar seemed to return to the present.  “Yes.  Let’s go.  Back to the tavern,” he ordered her.  “Come on, get up.”  With a gulp of relief, Gabrielle swung up on Argo, and felt his hands go around her waist.  She put her heels into Argo’s sides and rode the mare straight into the village, following Minya.

 

Zagreas’s men were hot on their heels as Argo galloped through the village lanes, and she saw the villagers stopping and taking up positions behind walls, ducking into houses, slipping behind shacks, waiting for them.  She heard the shattering of glass and the crackle of flames as some of the lamp-oil bottles Caesar had had them fill the day before were thrown and found their targets; once she heard a crash and loud screaming as one of the traps they had set the day before was triggered and did its work.  The tavern was at the far end of the village; its door was open.  Gabrielle didn’t wait to dismount; with a cry of “Duck!” to Caesar, she drove Argo right through the open door.  The mare’s hooves clattered on the wooden floorboards, and no sooner than she had hauled the mare to a halt than she heard the heavy wooden door slam behind them.

 

[*]

 

“Androcles, Taurus, get the shutters!” Minya shouted as she dropped the bar.  Gabrielle dimly became aware that they were not alone in the tavern; Ami the tavernkeeper stood against the counter, and two young men whom Gabrielle presumed were Androcles and Taurus were against the far wall.  They jerked at Minya’s command and came forward, hurrying to pull the shutters closed and plunging the inside of the tavern into darkness.  “Ami!” Minya called to the tavernkeeper.  “Light a lamp or something.”  Ami hurried to obey, and the yellow glow of a flickering flame pierced the darkness.

 

“That’ll keep the bastards at bay, but it won’t hold ‘em for long,” Minya said, and whirled to where Gabrielle had jerked Argo to a halt, against the back wall.  Argo stood with her head down, ears akimbo, feet splayed out and her tail lashing.  Her eyes showed white.  Gabrielle, swinging down and landing with a thump, did not know whether it was fear or rage that made the mare so agitated.  Argo shied and nearly knocked over a chair; Gabrielle took the reins and tried to soothe her, though it was difficult to do so through her own agitation.

 

“Gaius!” Minya demanded, swinging on Caesar.  “Whaddaya got for us?”  She paused.  “Gaius?”

 

Caesar was clumsily dismounting as Minya spoke.  His mangled legs gave under him as soon as they touched the floor, and he nearly fell; he saved himself by clutching Argo’s saddle horn.  The mare jerked away, nearly pulling the reins from Gabrielle’s hands, and her head came up, nearly striking a hanging lantern.  “Gaius!” Minya said again to his unresponsive back; Gabrielle, watching, saw his shoulders tighten.  “What do we do?”

 

“Yeah, Gaius!” cried the young man that Gabrielle remembered was Taurus, one of the trackers from the day before, while Androcles asked, “Yeah, Gaius, how are we gonna get out of this one?”

 

After a long moment, Caesar slowly turned to face them.  Gabrielle was shocked by what she saw.  His face was pale, rough-hewn; his eyes were hollow, empty.  Again, she thought he looked like an exhausted marathoner.  After a pause, he said curtly, “We don’t.”

 

There was silence in the tavern for a few moments, with only the sounds of shouting and clashing from the outside resounding through the interior.  Gabrielle, quickly scanning the faces of the villagers, was surprised, even through her own fear, at their reactions.  After a long glance at each other, Minya and Ami nodded slowly, with long exhales.  They shared the same expression; they looked strained but with an even greater determination; the elation had left Minya’s face, but the resolve was still there—if anything, it had hardened.  They almost looked, Gabrielle thought, as if they had somehow been expecting such an outcome.  It was only Androcles and Taurus, the two young men, who looked shocked—shocked and betrayed.

 

“We _don’t?_ ” Androcles asked, horrified.  “What do you _mean_ we don’t?”

 

“Yeah!” Taurus’s eyes were wide.  “How can you say that?  You must be able to think of something.”

 

Caesar shrugged, leaning against Argo’s side.  He didn’t speak.  His shoulders tightened still further, and Gabrielle saw a muscle quivering along his jaw.

 

“Androcles,” Minya began carefully.

 

Androcles wasn’t listening.  “There must be _something_ we can do!” he said, stepping forward, staring at Caesar desperately.

 

“Yeah!” Taurus chimed in; he had paled suddenly.  “How can you say that?!  _You_ got us into this,” he said with the beginning of anger, “and you _have_ to get us out!”

 

“Androcles, Taurus, settle down,” Ami ordered.

 

Caesar flicked the two young men a glance.  He pushed slowly away from Argo’s side, moving as if he were exhausted, and lurched forward to the center of the tavern, to take a seat on a chair facing the door.  He dropped into the chair as if he had just given the last of his strength.  “There’s nothing to do,” he said after a moment.  “This is it.  This is the end.”

 

Silence.  Outside the fighting had swirled closer.  Gabrielle heard distant crashing and shrieks, as well as the clang of steel on steel and the roar of flames.  She had a brief moment of gratitude that the tavern was stone— _at least they won’t be able to burn it,_ she thought.  Argo whickered and tried to shy again, and Gabrielle rubbed her nose, desperately trying to quiet the horse.

 

Androcles and Taurus stared at each other, then quickly looked at Minya and Ami.  Both the older women looked grim, but not angry; they looked as if they were setting themselves for a hard task.  The young men looked back at each other, then turned on Caesar both at the same time.

 

 _“Nothing?”_ Taurus asked desperately.  _“_ How can there be nothing? _”_   Caesar didn’t answer, but that muscle kept twitching in his jaw.  Taurus continued, “You said you could _help_ us!  We believed in you!  _I_ believed in you!  And now you’re saying that was a _lie?_   _How can there be nothing?!_ ” 

 

Gabrielle bit her lip, remembering the events of last week.  Despite everything, bad as everything was, she couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pity for Caesar. 

 

At the same time, Androcles was shouting,“You’re telling us we’re in a situation where all we can do is _die?_   All we can do is just _wait for death?_   _How could you let this happen?  How could you—_ “

 

And Caesar cracked.

 

He went with a snap so dramatic it was almost audible.  His spine straightened as if he had been galvanized; his black eyes flashed with fury, and he turned on the two youths so sharply they visibly flinched back from across the room.

 

“ _Shut up,”_ Caesar snarled at them.  “Just _shut up!_   You don’t know _anything_ about _anything!_ ” he shouted at them furiously; his voice was raw and ragged around the edges, and rapidly developing into a full-throated roar. “This whole damn thing was hopeless from the start and you _should have known it!_   You asked me to do the _impossible!_   _It’s impossible!_ ” he shouted, and Gabrielle didn’t know if he meant that for her too.  “Your lousy, shitty little village _couldn’t be saved!_   Well, I’m _done._   You hear me?  _I’m done!_   I’ve done all I can do and I’m _not doing any more!_   Not for you, and _not for her!”_   He turned and slashed one hand at Gabrielle as if he were reaching for her throat.  “So if you want to get out of here, _you_ think of something because _I quit!_ ” he almost screamed.

 

He stopped abruptly, out of breath, his dark eyes fiery.  The echoes of his shouting still rang inside the tavern; Argo whinnied and tried to rear, nearly yanking Gabrielle’s arm out of her socket.  Taurus and Androcles had drawn all the way back against the far wall, pale, their eyes wide; they actually seemed to be trembling.  Caesar turned away from them, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes, with an air of shutting out the world.  Gabrielle was stunned; while she’d heard Caesar shout before, she’d never seen him completely lose it like that.  The contrast to his normal, icily controlled manner made it somehow even more chilling.  She quickly looked over at Minya and Ami, to see that they were exchanging long glances in the sudden silence.

 

  

  1. Isn’t that right, Ami?”
  



 

“Yeah,” Ami said quietly.  “We know better than that.  We never had a chance before, why should now be any different?  That’s not the way the world works.  Things like villagers being able to fight off warlords don’t really happen, not in this world.  It was kind of fun to pretend for a while….but yeah.  We knew.  Somehow we knew.” Her voice was like Minya’s.  She did not speak in anger, not in grief, not in fear, not in blame; the two older women spoke with a sort of dreadful, fatalistic acceptance that tore at Gabrielle’s soul. 

 

“Yeah.  We knew.  Still….”  Minya paused.  “It was nice to have someone who could show us how to do something besides….jus’ stand around and wait to be killed, you know?”  Her mouth twisted.  “Least this way we get ta take some o’ the bastards down with us, stead of just linin up like sheep for the slaughter.”  Ami nodded behind her.  Minya tossed off a shrug.  “So….thanks, Gaius!” she said with a brave, bright, and absolutely beautiful smile.  “Even if you couldn’t save us.  You gave it your best shot, and it was a damn good one—much better than anything we coulda come up with. Thanks for everything,” she said, and there was real warmth in her voice.

 

“Yeah.  Thanks,” Ami echoed just as warmly.  Minya lifted her axe, and Ami the long cleaver she’d been carrying, and the two of them smiled at each other.

 

Caesar neither opened his eyes nor responded in any way, sitting silent and sullen on his chair in the middle of the tavern floor.  For Gabrielle’s part, she was almost stunned by the two women’s declarations.  The courage—the _heart_ —in Minya’s speech brought tears to her eyes.  She had lost, lost a fight that was stacked against her in a thousand ways and one that she had no prayer of winning.  _Not in this world._   She and Ami had lost; they knew it; and they were not angry.  They had the courage to accept their eventual fate, and they were ready to do what they could in the time remaining to them.

 

Gabrielle had heard the word _hero_ in bardic tales a thousand times.  The heroes of Troy, the hero Ulysses, the hero Aeneas.   She had sometimes thought about what exactly the qualifications were to be a hero; from what the bardic tales described, it had always seemed to her that many of the heroes were so-called simply by virtue of how many enemies they could kill in battle.  She wouldn’t wonder anymore.  Jett had told her a week ago that there were no heroes anymore, but in that moment, Gabrielle realized that he was wrong.  _Right now,_ she thought, _I am looking at two heroes._   Only commoners, not great warriors, not valiant or strong or accomplished; no songs would be sung about them, no tales told, no stories written.  But heroes, nonetheless.  And as she looked at them, and contemplated who they were and what they were about to do, her own fear seemed silly and childish; it lifted off her as the morning mist had burned off the battlefield in the heat of the sun, leaving only a calm resolve behind.

 

She reached behind her and pulled the hatchet out from where she had stuck it through her belt.  Her prior squeamishness about carrying the weapon seemed very distant from her now.  If she had to use it, well, she’d use it; she’d already killed once, and she had nothing left to lose in that way.  She couldn’t refuse to soil her hands and do nothing while Minya and Ami went down to defeat; the strength and gallantry they’d shown demanded a like response from her.  Men were coming to kill her and her friends.  She didn’t intend to let them if she could help it.  And though in the end she’d go down, she could do as Minya and Ami had demonstrated their willingness to do, and at least go down swinging.  She glanced over at Taurus and Androcles, to see what they thought, and saw that they too had calmed; that resolve that Minya and Ami were showing had communicated itself to them too.

 

Taurus caught her look.  “We’ll give ‘em something to think about,” he said quietly.

 

“That we will,” Androcles agreed, his jaw firming.

 

Just then, the door began to shudder.

 

[*]

 

The thick oaken planks bounced in their wooden frame, shivering under the impact of repeated blows.  The ring of axes biting into wood echoed throughout the tavern; Argo threw up her head and whickered.

 

“That’s not going to hold for very long!” Minya announced.  “We need to get ready!”  She shouldered her own axe, and Ami took a better grip on her cleaver.  Gabrielle lifted her hatchet.  All thought and emotion had gone out of her; there was no room left for anything but anticipation.

 

The blows kept falling on the door, the metal of axes ringing with the shock of contact with the thick oaken planks.  Minya and Ami took up positions on either side of the door, weapons at the ready; Taurus and Androcles moved forward to support them.  Taurus was holding a pitchfork in his hands, while Androcles had picked up a bottle to throw.  Argo was rearing and whickering at the thudding of the blows on the door; her head struck the hanging lantern and set it to swinging, and Gabrielle was nearly pulled off her feet.  As she pulled the horse back down with her free hand—the hatchet was still clenched in the other—there was a splintering crash from the front of the room, and the door burst inward.

 

Minya took the first man through the door down with a cry, swinging her axe at his face; he went down, spraying blood, and a pool of red washed across the rough floorboards.  Androcles’s hurled bottle caught the second one in the stomach, knocking him back, and he staggered back out into the lane beyond, gasping.  Ami’s cleaver came down and scrawled a bloody gash down the side of the third man, and Gabrielle thought wildly to herself, _We might have a chance—_

 

But the third man was not down; he turned with an ugly snarl and swung his long sword right at Ami’s head.  Ami didn’t try to block it with her little cleaver, which probably saved her life; she flung herself backward instead—nearly tangling in the body of the man Minya had downed—and avoided the slash.  But the man lunged into the space she had recently vacated, and a fourth, with tangled black hair and a gold earring, and fifth, with light brown hair caught back in a ponytail, burst through the door behind him.  More men followed—a sixth, a seventh, an eighth—and Gabrielle could see still more pressing up behind them through the door outside.  Just then, she heard hacking coming from the shutters.  _Oh gods, if they start coming through the windows—_

 

Taurus had backed to the corner beside Ami and he now lashed out with a foot, kicking a heavy oaken table onto its side to serve as a crude shield for the two of them.  He jabbed his pitchfork at the man with the earring, advancing on him; the rusty tines caught him in the stomach, and he gave a gurgling cry before dropping, holding his belly.  Minya had been driven back behind the heavy stone counter and was swinging her long-handled axe at all who came near, shrieking like a hawk, while Androcles sheltered behind her and to her left; he had grabbed wine bottles and cups from behind the bar and was pelting them at anyone he could see.  Shattered glass fragments littered the floor, and pools of dark red wine, looking almost like blood in the dim interior of the tavern.  Gabrielle was trying to maneuver herself and Argo into a better position, when with a wild squeal, Argo succeeded in yanking the reins right out of Gabrielle’s grasp.

 

Up the mare reared, up, up, screaming, her eyes showing white all the way around; she was impossibly large in the small, dark space.  She reared up, stretching high, almost striking her head on the low ceiling; then fell like a thunderbolt from heaven, smashing her hooves onto the head of the dirty-faced man in front of them.  He was wearing a metal helmet, but it helped him not at all; there was a crunching sound, the helmet crumpled like paper, and he dropped like a stone at her feet.  Without a moment’s pause, the mare slammed her front hooves to the floor and whirled on her forelegs, lashing out with her powerful back hooves; another man, with a shaved head and a gold tooth, caught a blow to the chest.  He went flying across the room to slam into the wall beside Ami and Taurus; he twitched once, then lay still.

 

With a lunge, Gabrielle hurdled a chair and flung herself over a table to get out of Argo’s way; the mare was rearing, plunging, biting, her screams ringing in the confines of the tavern.  Chairs and tables splintered at contact with her hooves, and attackers went flying left and right as she struck at them; even Zagreas’s men were backing off from the wild horse.  _No sense trying to grab her or restrain her,_ Gabrielle thought to herself; _that mare is worth another four men.  Eight!_  

 

The next moment, she tripped and went sprawling on the floor next to Caesar’s chair.  An awkward, unplanned roll saved her from a spearthrust to the back, and she came to her feet with the hatchet _still_ in her hand in time to see Androcles hurl a stone cup across the room at the man who had been attacking her.  It struck him right between the eyes and he went down.

 

Caesar had not moved or responded in any way during the fighting; he simply sat there, his eyes closed, arms folded across his chest, looking for all the world like a sullen six-year-old as the struggle raged around him.  The attackers seemed to be ignoring him too, perhaps thinking it was best to deal with the combative opponents before the one who was just sitting there, but Gabrielle had no faith in that to last long.  “ _Get up!”_ Gabrielle shouted at him.  She had to yell to be heard above the din:  Argo was screaming; Zagreas’s men were grunting and cursing; Minya and the other defenders were shrieking defiance.  “ _You have to get up!”_ Gabrielle shouted at him again.  Caesar gave no sign that he had even heard.

 

Suddenly, Minya’s hawk-shriek behind her cut off in a choked cry.  Without another thought, Gabrielle whipped around to see what had happened, when a powerful blow struck her upside the head and sent her sprawling full-length; she felt the side of her face strike the tavern floor.  She didn’t lose consciousness, but it was a near thing; the world grayed out around her; she was dazed, stunned, unable to remember what was going on. 

 

 _Where am I?_ she thought in a dizzy, wandering way; it certainly was loud.  Couldn’t be Potedaia; Potedaia was quiet, peaceful, a gentle, sunny place….could she be in her room at the Academy?  Was Xena’s army attacking the city?  The bardic elders had said the Daughter of War would never get past their defenders, but Gabrielle hadn’t believed them, and most of the populace hadn’t either.  Was that what all the noise was….?   But if she was there, then why was her bed so hard?  Slowly, she forced open her eyes, then dizzily rolled them to look up at the scene before her.

 

Everything looked crazily skewed to her, like a picture or mosaic where the pieces didn’t fit together right; it took a moment for her to resolve what she was seeing.  A man was standing before her.  He was very tall, dressed in scruffy brown, carrying a long sword, with a rusty, dented helmet on his head.  He was not looking at her; in fact, he wasn’t facing her at all.  He was standing in a rectangle of light, slanting in through the open door, illuminating both him and the man he faced.  _Caesar,_ Gabrielle remembered after a moment.  _That’s right.  That’s Caesar._   Caesar was still— _still? Yes, still_ —sitting in his chair, arms folded.  The scene stood out very clearly to Gabrielle, outlined in three dimensions.  There was noise in the background, crashes, bashes and screaming, but they were dim, distant.  All her attention was on what she could see.

 

The man looked down at Caesar.  It must have lasted only a second or two, maybe even less than that, but it felt to Gabrielle as if everything was happening in slow motion.  Goaded by some instinct, Caesar opened his eyes and raised his head.  His mouth was tight, and he stared up at the man with a look Gabrielle instinctively recognized—a look of disdain and something else—impatience, perhaps?  As the man drew back his sword, Caesar made no move to defend himself; he simply remained still, glaring up at the man who would be his death.

 

Something was in Gabrielle’s hand, something heavy and smooth.  She was too disoriented to remember what it was; nor somehow did it seem to matter.  She rolled to her knees and swung whatever was in her hand at the man menacing Caesar.  She did not do this with any conscious intent to injure the man; it was the same panicky, repelling motion of someone swinging a shovel at a bat, meaning to knock the thing away as much as to hurt it.  It wasn’t until she saw the blade going into the man’s back that she realized she held a hatchet.

 

The handle was yanked from her grasp as the man collapsed to the floor, the blade still embedded in his back.  Gabrielle froze, trying through her confusion and disorientation to process what had happened and figure out what it meant; her head was throbbing as if it would split, and her thoughts felt thick and slow.  Her eyes automatically went to Caesar for help, and found none there; he looked…. _Royally pissed off,_ she thought, remembering one of her friends’ favorite expressions when they had been students together at the Bardic Academy.  _Annoyed, that’s it.  He looks annoyed._   Their eyes met for a moment; then Caesar’s dark gaze shifted fractionally.  “Behind you,” he said coldly.

 

She didn’t get a chance to turn before she was grabbed by her hair, yanked to her feet and flung violently against the rough wall of the tavern.  More pain lanced through her throbbing head; her limbs suddenly felt weak as water, and her eyes wandered for a moment as the world swam out of focus.  When it came back, her eyes fixed on a face close to hers—a man with pale, freckled skin and scruffy blonde hair, and eyes as green as her own only much colder.  His mouth was twisted in anger, and he snarled, _“You killed Artus!_ ” As Gabrielle was trying to make sense of his words— _Artus?  Artus?  Who’s Artus?_ her wandering mind thought vaguely—the blonde man raised his hands.  He held an axe, she saw, and felt this should be important somehow, but couldn’t remember why.  The man drew the axe back….

 

….and then suddenly the point of a dagger was sticking out of his neck below his chin. 

 

As the man collapsed to the ground, Gabrielle finally saw something that she recognized; and this thing confused her still further.

 

“Jett?”

 

The calm-eyed assassin stooped to retrieve his dagger, wiping it on the fallen man’s shirt.  “Yes, it’s me,” he said, as easily as if there was nothing in the world surprising about it.

 

“But….but….”  Gabrielle could only falter for a moment; her thoughts felt as if they were moving through honey, and her tongue was clumsy.  _How is he here?  How is he--_   “Am I….dead?” she managed after a moment.  She could hear that her words were lightly slurred.

 

Jett smiled at her briefly.  “No, Gabrielle, you’re not dead,” he promised.  He slipped his dagger back up his sleeve.  As he did, Gabrielle suddenly became aware of two things—that the interior of the tavern had fallen mostly silent, except for low moaning, and that a low, rolling, rumbling sound was coming in from outside.

 

 _What….?_   None of it made sense; her thoughts were too slow, and the pain in her head was making her dizzy and sick to her stomach.  _What’s going on?_   Her eyes went instinctively to Caesar, and found him; he glanced at her briefly and then looked away.  Her gaze roamed jerkily around the rest of the tavern; but in her disoriented state it looked like something out of a fever dream; there were people lying down, and people standing up, and Argo back against the wall, and blood and wine and broken glass everywhere, but she could make sense of none of it.  It was as if she were looking at puzzle pieces that didn’t go together.  There was something about someone she should be worried about, but she couldn’t remember who it was.  Her head hurt too bad.  Unsteadily, she turned to Jett.

 

“What’s going on?”  It didn’t sound like her voice.  Outside, she could hear the rumbling getting louder. 

 

Jett smiled at her again.  “Come on, I’ll show you.”  One hand gently on her arm, Jett guided her to the door, then turned her until they were looking out into the bright light.  Gabrielle moved painfully with faltering steps, and squinted against the sun.

 

Outside, as her eyes adjusted, she realized all was chaos.  Brown-clad, scruffy men were running in panic through the lanes of the village, shouting and cursing and screaming at each other; it took her a moment to realize that these were the men they had been fighting.  _Zagreas’s men,_ she realized; the name returned to her distantly.  _These are Zagreas’s men._   Many of them carried weapons unsheathed and bloody; many of them had arms full of valuables, necklaces, candlesticks, cups, while others carried chickens under their arms; clearly they had been in the act of looting and pillaging.  Now, however, they were mostly running in fear. 

 

The source of the rumbling she had been hearing now became clear, as she saw that mounted riders were galloping through the village, in armor and on horseback, slashing as they rode at the men on foot, with long curving swords.  There were many of the mounted men, and they rode together in groups, moving like an inexorable force, driving Zagreas’s motley band of riffraff before them like dust in the wind.  Gabrielle was mesmerized by the speed and precision of their movements, and would have stood there all day staring at the horse-mounted men, but Jett touched her lightly on the arm.

 

“Look,” he said quietly, and pointed.

 

Gabrielle looked where he pointed, and saw it:  a tall, slender helmeted figure dressed in scale armor and mounted on a brown horse came galloping at incredible speed down the center lane.  This new rider also brandished a long, curving sword, unstained; the blade flashed brilliantly.  _“Take them alive, men!  Take them as prisoners!  Don’t kill if you don’t have to!”_   The words rang back from the village walls, echoing like a bugle call in the clarion air.  The horse was as swift and fluid as Argo, and together horse and rider moved as if they were invincible, unstoppable, as if there were no force on earth that could resist them or even get in their way.  It was inconceivable, watching them, that anyone would even try.  Gabrielle had seen something like that twice before.  She stood, staring in awe.

 

“ _Hey!”_   Jett called as the mounted figure went thundering past, and the rider’s head turned.

 

 _“Jett!”_   With a yank, the brown horse pulled up short.  The rider dismounted, swinging easily down, moving with a grace and perfection of motion that took Gabrielle’s breath away, then reached up and removed the helmet.  At the same moment, the sun broke through the clouds, and illuminated horse and rider in a brilliant shaft of dazzling light.  She had guessed it, but Gabrielle caught her breath all the same as she saw the rider was a woman.

 

The woman had bright blonde hair, cut short to fit under her helmet, and narrow piercing blue eyes set in a face darkened by long exposure to harsh sun, fierce winds, and airborne sand.  She was not beautiful with the unearthly beauty of Xena, or Callisto, but there was something about her utterly arresting, a grandeur that caught the eye and compelled the onlooker’s attention.  Like Xena and Callisto, she carried about her a superhuman aura, a presence, a radiant charisma that almost visibly shimmered in the air around her, spilling outward from her to illuminate all she touched.  Gabrielle had thought Caesar had personal magnetism.  It was nothing compared to the sheer power of this woman.  Not even close.  There were only two others who could stand beside her.  Gabrielle couldn’t stop looking at her.  Her limbs felt weak, whether with the headache, with attraction, with fear, she couldn’t tell.  She didn’t need Jett’s shouted greeting to know who she was looking at; it could be no one else.

 

Najara.

 

 _To be continued._


End file.
